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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25186858">Bauhaus 1924</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerrKirschbaum/pseuds/HerrKirschbaum'>HerrKirschbaum</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Academia, Alternate Universe - Architects, Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bauhaus - Freeform, Coming of Age, Dark Academia, Drama &amp; Romance, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Germany, M/M, Magical Realism, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, haruki murakami would hopefully like this</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:07:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>70,496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25186858</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerrKirschbaum/pseuds/HerrKirschbaum</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Germany, 1924: Levi Ackermann studies art and design alongside his best friend at the infamous Bauhaus in Weimar. In the echoes of a lost war, he meets an ambitious architect who shakes everything he thought he knew to its foundations. But the shadows of the past still lurk around every corner...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Levi/Erwin Smith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yo,<br/>it's been quite a long time since I uploaded stories regularly. A lot has happened and for the last two years I was mostly busy getting my life in order. During that period I was still writing, but I didn't have time to translate everything into English anymore until I fell for some nice translation tools on the internet, who made the whole process way more economic. I noticed that it is easier for me to write my drafts if I can show them to an audience in the meantime.<br/>Therefore I'm back now for a longer, historical story, which I hope will please you a bit. With an international pandemic, I think we could all use a little diverting.<br/>Uploads will take place every Friday.<br/>I hope you are still out there somewhere :)<br/>So: Have fun in Weimar, 1924!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Charcoal, which stroked over paper, black and brown, thrown loosely onto the canvas. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and began again, blinking beyond the easel, my forehead in folds. In this way I transferred organic form into subjective two-dimensionality, formed reality with the claim of stripping it of its annoying ornamentation, breaking it down to the essential, its core, its essence. This is how I drew, this is how we drew, a whole generation, together we made epoch.</p><p>The year: 1924. The place: Weimar. The mind: clearly structured in form and colour. Circles were blue, triangles yellow, and body studies were best done naked.</p><p>Through wide, meter-high windows, the light of the setting afternoon sun fell into the heart of the studio, this spacious, bright room, whose dry air smelled of paint and dust, and bathed everything in its golden yellow glow. Once the Grand Ducal Saxon School of Art was located in these halls, but no longer. In 1919, the avant-garde began its reign within these walls. The world was changing. We breathed new beginnings, it dripped from every pore. Thinking, forming, daring the future, merging art and craft into one: Where, if not here?</p><p>Loosely embracing the black charcoal with three fingers, I (call me Levi) drew a few final strokes, sent them from brain to arm and hand on the paper, before I let myself sink back into the chair. Barely 22 years old, my body was still inscribed with youth. Under a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up over the elbows, a pair of slender, sinewy arms stood out. Wisps of black hair hung down from my pale forehead, shining with pomade, in response to the bent over posture. With a casual movement I brushed them behind my ear, looking out into the world from a heart-shaped face, the features serious, sunken but watchful eyes exposed.</p><p>I placed the charcoal on the easel in front of me and examined my work, my head bent to one side, the expression undefined, joyless perhaps, before my gaze wandered to the object of my studies. A young woman was sitting on a wooden pedestal in the middle of the room, neither thin nor thick, with curves I had worked on over the past few minutes. She was young, her hair boyishly cut, and of course, naked. At the signal of a bell she had changed pose again and again, and I had torn one side of my drawing pad and thrown it to the floor, looking at her, studying the change while I dissected her body into shapes and lines and started drawing again. My gaze dissected her body. As a sequence of basic geometric shapes they found their way onto paper.</p><p>Paul Klee stood not far from the door, his round face showing the usual mixture of distanced serenity and composure. Wordlessly, with just a single gesture of his hand, he ended the course, and restlessness seized the room. Only now I became aware of the remaining people, men and women of my age, from here, there, all over the world. They all had, like me, held out in their chairs, an easel in front of them, coal between their black smeared fingers. Now each of them chose the drawing he or she thought most accomplished and placed it in the middle of the room, some of them silently, bust most of them chatting. We learned from the same masters and walked the same paths, but apart from that we could have been no more different.</p><p>I slipped off my chair and followed the others. They tended to ignore me, for I was a quiet and silent fellow student who kept his thoughts to himself when he was not asked. I carefully placed my sketch on the floor before crossing my arms in front of my chest and stepping back behind the others, somewhere, in one of the back rows.</p><p>Silently I let my eyes wander over the patchwork of drawings. Here I discovered traces of the finest grey, soft, flowing like water over the ground, there hard, deep black strokes, powerful, portraying the body as part of an industrial utilization machinery, just one cog among many. They had all long since found their style and remained true to it. I myself seemed to fade away in between. My strokes were neither hard nor confident, they had softened over the years and now they seemed-</p><p>"Too naturalistic," said the woman next to me, pointing to my sketch. You could have read her as male: Suit trousers, a shirt and tie, short brunette fringes played around her face in contrast to the usually seen long hair. Her voice, of distinguished coolness, harbored a French accent. I hardly knew her, despite the time spent together; if I was not mistaken, her name was Marie. "Such drawings can be seen in every gallery in Paris. No statement, no style. It's all interchangeable."</p><p>Klee wanted to know what it did to her, emotionally. She shrugged. Nothing, she replied. Art that doesn't evoke emotion has failed. It would be forgotten before one even had looked at it as if it had never existed.</p><p>My lips twisted into a narrow line, I clenched my hands together beside her in fists. Her words cut me in two, and yet I was determined not to let this feeling come out. I had always held it that way and people avoided me for it, but I did not care.</p><p>Yet it still hurt. The pride, I thought, probably, but before I could brood about it any longer the course turned to the other sketches. Mostly criticism was made, praise was given every now and then, then it was cleaned up. With routine hand movements the sketches were stowed away in the folders, the easels and chairs were placed at the edge of the room.</p><p>Then the students streamed out, chatting, laughing, a crowd of people making their way. Most of them seemed cheerful, blameless, as if life had never laid its hand on their souls before. With the folder still under my arm, I stayed in the middle of the hall and looked after them. They had remained strangers to me from the first day on, through the years. Nothing had changed.</p><p>At that time, in the first few days, when it had mattered, I had failed to get in touch with them, and now it had long been too late. It often felt as if I was behind a dome of glass, a dome that separated me from the world, and secretly I knew it had not always been this way.</p><p>Meanwhile it was dawning; the light of the setting sun was orange-red in colour, falling on my otherwise pale arms. Steps sounded behind me. It was Klee, and a comparatively warm smile appeared on his round, otherwise so serious face.</p><p>He wanted to know whether the first sketch had been mine, and I nodded, my eyes downcast, the expression serious. For a while Klee let his eyes rest on me.</p><p>I lacked style, for some time now, he then remarked, as one noticed that the weather was fine, or that it would rain soon.</p><p>I was aware of that, I returned.</p><p>It had not always been like that. A while ago I had started to imitate instead of coming out what was slumbering inside, he said.</p><p>Yes.</p><p>In fact, this was not a bad sign.</p><p>Why?</p><p>Because it meant that my talent was still inside me. I needed to learn to make the essential visible again. How I did that was up to me.</p><p>Klee placed one hand on my shoulder and pressed it gently, saying that if I wanted to finish the apprenticeship in time, I would have until the end of the year to get this problem under control, and that this was plenty of time.</p><p>His hand rested on me without pressure, warm and soft I could sense it through the fabric of his shirt. Everyone had to proceed at his own pace. The potential was there. I should not worry. Of course, I thought.</p><p>Then he let go of me and said goodbye, with the same smile and with his hat on, through the metre-high studio door and out into the corridor. Silently I looked after him. My heart began to beat faster, but only two or three times, then it seemed to have lost its desire for excitement and became heavy. I felt as if the emptiness of the room was resting on my shoulders and I began to shiver, although it was unusually warm that afternoon in spring.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With a quiet clicking sound the door to the main building fell shut behind me. It was warmer out here than up in the atelier, the air heavy with aromas of grasses, flowers and spring. Was there a season more hungry for life than this one?, it rushed through my mind. I doubted it.</p>
<p>A gust of wind swept over my face and hair, tugged at my clothes and almost tore the folder with my drawings from my hands, but my grip did not give way, my fingers tightly and unyieldingly closed around the yellow waxed cardboard.</p>
<p>Not far from me, in a meadow whose green stripes lay in the warm light of the setting sun, two young people were sitting in the grass, a woman and a man of the same age, Isabel and Farlan were their names. I had known them since my first week in Weimar, and so they were, or at least I suspected they were, the closest thing to friends in my life. Our eyes met and a smile came across their faces. They raised their hands, waved to me and I returned the greeting, if only modestly. Next to them stood a portable gramophone, but they had not set it up; one was only passing through.</p>
<p>A thin smile on my lips, I approached them.</p>
<p>"I am too late," I said.</p>
<p>"What was the matter?" It was Farlan who spoke. Blond, slightly curly hair brushed against a pair of blue-grey, alert eyes. The rogue sparkled in his eyes. He rose, sank his hands into the pockets of his beige knickerbockers, and began to circle around me with a knowing grin. "You had to attend the follow-up talk, or am I wrong?" he finally said, and the grin on his lips widened.</p>
<p>"Maybe."</p>
<p>Then Farlan clapped his hands as if he had just won a bet, and laughed. "Again?" His voice sounded loud and penetrating across the square, but that was the way it sounded, it always did.</p>
<p>"Be quiet." With my free hand I pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of my shirt and tucked them between my lips. Farlan gave me a match and for one breath we were silent. "If a lack of style was stylish, I wouldn't have to worry about it," I remarked finally.</p>
<p>"Oh, Levi," Isabel now interfered, unasked, as usual, "It won't be so bad." She was a petite young lady with short, auburn hair and freckles. She was wearing a dress of grey cloth, but with long sleeves, shaped like a shirt. A black, translucent scarf around her neck resembled a tie. Now she stood up, steered towards me and reached for my portfolio, but I was faster and turned to the side.</p>
<p>"You were Klee's favorite student from the beginning. No matter how bad you think your work is, it's probably still far better than anything we could do." Pouting, she reached for the folder once more. "Now give it to me."</p>
<p>"No." I pressed the folder against my chest, slipped the cigarette between my lips and smoked. "Besides, you have wool in your hair," I added dryly.</p>
<p>"Where?"</p>
<p>With a gesture as if I wanted to scare away flies, I waved her towards me. Here and there red and blue threads protruded from her mop of hair, which I carefully removed with my fingertips.</p>
<p>"Don't change the subject." For a moment, Farlan looked at me suspiciously. "Show us the picture."</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Why not?" Farlan came one step closer.</p>
<p>"He's ashamed," giggled Isabel beside us.</p>
<p>"Oh, Levi." Playfully rebuking, he shook his head. "I thought we'd moved past this point." Still the same conspiratorial grin on his lips, Farlan put an arm around my shoulders, but I soon understood what he was aiming at. Even before he could reach for the folder with the remaining hand, I had freed myself from his grip and taken a step to the side, but overlooked Isabel, who saw her opportunity and grabbed it. With a triumphant laugh she jumped away from us. I went after her, followed by Farlan, and a short struggle unfolded between the three of us, but I found myself powerless against their combined forces.</p>
<p>My protest was ignored, the folder opened instead and the sketches of the day taken. Almost greedily, Isabel and Farlan bent over them, looking at the coal-black lines, and the benevolent excitement on their faces at first faded with every second that passed. Once again I felt the sagging in the pit of my stomach, which had also attacked me when I was looking at the sketches before during class.</p>
<p>Farlan turned around. He was still grinning, but something pitiful had entered his gaze. He began to stammer, looking for words of encouragement, but I no longer listened to him. Instead, my eyes rested on Farlan's shoulder.</p>
<p>It touched Isabel's, only slightly, but more than necessary. The two had been friends with each other since they had started their studies here, even more so, but they had never bothered to tell me about it. Sometimes, however, it seemed as if they rubbed it under my nose on purpose to annoy me, or because they thought I would not notice it anyway, and it filled me with disgust. I did not know why, but in such moments I felt disconnected, exposed in my own inadequacy.</p>
<p>Secretly, I had always been alone, I had been since my school days, and actually it had never bothered me. Then I had seen them together and something in me, a switch in my brain or something like that, flipped. The happier they seemed to me, the more I hated myself, it was illogical, yes, I knew that, but there was nothing I could do about it. When I saw myself with the eyes of those around me, I suddenly realized that to most people I had to look like a peculiar failure.</p>
<p>Without responding to their words I took the sheet out of their hands and tore it up before their eyes. Immediately they fell silent.</p>
<p>"What?", I asked and stuffed the rags into the next bin. "You said we were going to the park. What are you waiting for?"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey you guys!</p>
<p>Thank you very much for the subscriptions, kudos and what not :) I was very happy about it. You might have noticed that the chapter are much shorter than they used to be in Lend me Your Summer. It's because I would rather upload them scene by scene this time. Should the scenes be too short I might upload two at a time, so place be careful not to accidently skip a chapter. </p>
<p>I hope you're doing well! I can truly say that I am (and grateful for it indeed). </p>
<p>Take care of yourself and stay healthy.</p>
<p>See you next Friday!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Only a few minutes away from the main building, not far from the garden house of a poet, protected by some bushes and trees, we spread out a blanket. One could forget that this was a town, so vast and unspoilt was the park, which had once been transformed into an English garden in the 18th century. While Isabel bent over a book she had brought with her, Farlan took care of the gramophone. Shortly afterwards, the well-known scratching of music filled the air and conversations held until then died away. Time seemed to stand still, and yet we were carefree; for the first time this year I felt the lightness of summer.</p><p>Lying on my back I looked up into the increasingly dark sky. Not a cloud was to be seen. A pale blue still reigned over me, it melted away when you looked towards the horizon, over yellow into dark red. I began to think about how I could represent this colour scheme in form of a print, but the thought soon began to bore me, so I let it go. Linoleum print, that was the major of my studies, but as in nude drawing, my artistic progress had stalled a few months ago. There was no real reason. It had just happened.</p><p>Isabel, who was mainly to be found in Weaving, as well as Farlan, who concentrated on Wall Painting (although his heart actually belonged to Photography), were absorbed in their activities. Often and with shining eyes they talked about their projects and results. Then I turned around and walked away, left the apartment if necessary, I couldn't, no, I didn't want to hear such things any longer, I just couldn't bear it at that time. The pressure to innovate had tickled something in me, a feeling of resistance, and now I could not achieve anything. It was a complete agony.</p><p>Only now I noticed the splashing of the nearby river, as well as a heron that had settled in a pasture next to us in the branches. He watched us. Black, clear eyes looked down on us incessantly, and within me the suspicion grew that he secretly despised us as we lay here, believing us better than the rest of the world, members of the avant-garde they had been taught to be.</p><p>I looked back at him motionlessly, every fibre of my body increasingly tense. Then I blinked, and the heron disappeared. Not a branch swayed under its missing weight, nothing moved, it was as if it had never been there before, a dream, an illusion, no: a delusion.</p><p>Right next to me Farlan and Isabel whispered together, so softly that I did not understand a word of what was said. Without moving, I began to watch them from the corners of my eyes, following Farlan's hand as it glided along Isabel's upper body. His fingertips gently touched the base of her bosom, which was small and firm under the grey fabric of her dress. She was not wearing a bra.</p><p>Although Isabel was officially living with a friend, she spent most of her time in the small apartment I shared with Farlan.</p><p>Sometimes when I entered the kitchen early in the morning, which separated our rooms, I could hear her through the thin wooden door. I had heard the sounds that left Isabel's lips at the highest moment and knew the frequency and intensity with which they would melt their bodies into one. Probably I, who was in my right mind at those moments, knew them better than they knew themselves in this regard, but that did not matter. My knowledge of it remained a secret, I did not talk about it, not even about the feelings and impulses that arose in me as a result of my observations.</p><p>"You are shameless', I murmured and put my forearm over my eyes, whereupon they both began to laugh.</p><p>"Of course." Farlan gave me a mocking look out of the corner of his eye, then breathed a kiss on the chin line for Isabel. "Can't everyone be as prudish as you old Catholic."</p><p>"That has nothing to do with it." Again, my eyes went to heaven. By now the blue had darkened, the moon had risen and was enthroned over the falling black.</p><p>"Then come drink with us tonight. They're playing music at the Schlösschen." Isabel sat up. In the twilight, her freckles seemed more prominent than usual. "It's Gunther's birthday. He invites you." She giggled. "This is going to be something, I tell you. He asked for you, by the way. I just forgot to give you the message."</p><p>"I can't." The smile on her lips disappeared.</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"They need me at the shop." I didn't have to look at her to see how she would react. With a sound of rejection, she let herself fall back to the blanket.</p><p>"Why is that?" Farlan, who had rolled over on his side in the meantime, watched me with an uncomprehending expression, his head resting on his hand. "We're all scholarship holders, none of us has to pay the piper. It doesn't occur to me why you're so worked up about it anyway, man. We're gonna keep on slaving away long enough once we're done here." He raised the remaining hand and tapped me on the forehead three times with his index finger. "What are you doing with all that dough? Do tell me."</p><p>But instead of answering, I shrugged, my eyes still pointing to the sky. A flock of birds flew across my face and soon disappeared from my sight. Would I still have the freedom to lie so still in the grass and listen to life after I had graduated this winter? I did not know.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey :)</p><p>I hope you guys are alive and well. The numbers of infections around here have been on a rise since a few days and I can't say that I'm not worried about that. Let's just hope for the best.</p><p>You might be wondering when on earth Erwin will finally have his first appearance. It won't take him too long from now on. Don't worry ♡</p><p>Have a nice week and see you next Friday!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Was I a prude? I couldn't answer that. If I had wanted to, I might have led a dissolute life, as many of my fellow students did. But unlike them, I didn't care, so I took care of other things. If I was honest, I had never quite understood the boundless effort that many people put in for a few beautiful minutes. Farlan used to joke that I was essentially asexual, but even though I left this uncommented, I secretly knew it wasn't true. I often masturbated, sometimes even when I could hear Farlan and Isabel next door. It was nothing of which I was ashamed. The Catholic part of me knew it was wrong, only the accompanying feeling of guilt had never been willing to come.</p>
<p>Like every Sunday, I attended church. I had been brought up that way, my mother a devoted Catholic, it had not passed me by without leaving its mark. Many things had remained strange even in 22 years, many were familiar, and many were dear to me. I appreciated the liturgy, the always same procedures, the impressions and smells. They reminded me of my childhood, a time of which I felt that it belonged to another era of my unmeaningful life.</p>
<p>It was a lengthy room in which I sat, on a plain wooden bench, surrounded by people of all ages in their best clothes. The building looked older than it really was; I could never understand why the architect had to use Gothic as a basis for his design.</p>
<p>Barely ten metres away from him, not far from the magnificent altar, the priest stood and remained silent, for the first time that morning. He was just arranging the papers for the upcoming sermon. He had not been the guardian of this parish for long; he had taken it over less than half a year ago, a young man, barely outgrown the seminary, tall, slender, with an even face and intelligent blue eyes. He could have been the devil himself, he was so beautiful. Since he had begun his ministry here, the Mass attracted more female audience than before. I was not surprised. Yet I doubted that this man looked at them the same way they looked at him.</p>
<p>The pastor entered the pulpit, spread his documents in front of him and took a long look into the crowd, as people do who are interested in an intimate relationship with their counterpart. He took a deep breath, gathered strength for the upcoming words and a warmth entered his gaze, which could easily be mistaken for love; perhaps it really was love, I did not know.</p>
<p>Then he began to preach. He wasn't a poor speaker, the text was of great rhetorical skill. About the awakening life in nature and humanity in the face of the coming of spring, he quickly drew the connection to the essence of true love, to selflessness, devotion and sacrifice. He tried some anecdotes from the New Testament, encouraged to trust one's own heart and to open it to the world - but he quickly made his way to the other extreme, into lust, debauchery and promiscuity. Without realizing it, a sigh left my throat.</p>
<p>It had had to happen, I thought, not without tiredness, but why? Until then it had almost been beautiful. The border between love and exclusion and hate, it hardly seemed to be closer than in the Catholic Church where I had grown up.</p>
<p>Not long after that my thoughts began to wander. I turned around, let my gaze wander through the nave, looked at the people, the children, the elderly. They all sat there in their mouse-grey Sunday dresses and like mice they all looked ahead, in wide but empty eyes. Here and there one of them wore his uniform as if he had slept through the end of the war. Some civilians lacked limbs, and I understood that they knew the raging thunder of the drumfire, just as my father had known it before it had lead him away from us, forever.</p>
<p>The sermon ended. Creed (I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting. Amen.). Intercessions (Kyrie Eleison). Eucharist and Communion (The Blood of Christ). Blessing. Extract. The organist seemed to take his task very seriously, and so the church trembled under the deafening sound of thundering organ tones. In truth, this was the part of the Mass I appreciated most, and so I remained seated while the sounds twitched through my marrow and leg as if they shook me awake from a sleep that seemed to have lasted for ages. Only when the sounds subsided did I take my song book and sauntered out to the exit where the priest said goodbye to each one of us to freedom. He shook my hand with a friendly smile. His handshake was firm, but just as gentle and this confused me.</p>
<p>For a moment I looked at our two hands, intertwined and resting in each other, then I asked the priest to hear my confession.</p>
<p>A short time later we entered the confessional. The eyes of the priest shone, like those of a child who felt joy at having found a companion in a matter of the heart. The narrowness and darkness in the confessional quickly gave me the feeling of being hidden from the world. I suspected the actual meaning of this construction in that very feeling. It smelled of cedar and incense. Crossing myself, I lowered my gaze and folded my hands in my lap.</p>
<p>"In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit", I said the ancient formula.</p>
<p>"God, who enlightens our hearts, may he grant you true knowledge of your sins and his mercy."</p>
<p>"Amen." Silence. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."</p>
<p>"The patience of the Lord knows no bounds."</p>
<p>Surprised at the sudden tightness of my throat, I bit my lower lip. I hadn't thought about what exactly I wanted to confess. Much more it had been like the priest's touch made me feel a sudden urge to do it. Swallowed up by the darkness I nodded, but then I became aware that the pastor could not see me and mumbled a few words cautiously.</p>
<p>"Doubts plague me', I finally said. The priest remained silent. "It has never been my intention', I continued, then paused before the words began to gush from my father's lips, like a stream, sweeping away what cannot hold. "It has never been my intention to go astray. But I can no longer believe that the teaching is correct. I attend church services, but the contents pass me by. In my thoughts I catch myself disagreeing and discussing, but in truth I have no need for proper discourse. I have become indifferent to the teaching, the sacraments, God himself, perhaps, even life. At first I thought it would soon pass, but this seems to be my new normality." Hands clasped tightly together, I licked my lips. I thought of my mother, of what she would think, she would know what I really felt, and lowered my eyes. "I commit sins and yet feel no remorse. How can I be helped? It makes no sense." I hesitated for a moment, forehead wrinkled, and stroked my hands nervously across my thighs and knees. "I am empty, Father. There's nothing inside of me to hold me. I am cut off from life, from my fellow men."</p>
<p>"You are lonely," it resounded through the wall. Once more I nodded, followed by some whispered words.</p>
<p>"I cannot resolve it", I softly made clear, "the people around me have become indifferent to me."</p>
<p>Thereupon the priest remained silent, and it seemed horribly long. My hands began to feel damp, the air in the confessional appeared unbearably stuffy.</p>
<p>"What shall I do?" I finally whispered, and my voice sounded fragile.</p>
<p>"Practice charity," replied the priest, in a gentle, soft way that did not match the cool color of his eyes. "Search purposefully for the beauty of creation, and you will find your way back on your own. Only love has the power to break down the barriers between us humans and to bridge the distance that exists between individuals today.</p>
<p>I stayed silent for a while. "Is that all you can tell me?" It finally escaped me. I felt as if he could feel the priest's gaze resting on my shoulders through the wall.</p>
<p>"Yes," he replied, as if I could only gradually grasp the full extent of the words I had just received.</p>
<p>"And I told you that I don't care about people."</p>
<p>On the other side of the chair, a soft, gentle laugh rang out. "That's why you have to work at it, my son." He smiled as he spoke these words, I could hear it clearly in the sound of his voice. It was the tone of voice with which one spoke when he was sure of his good deed for the day. It had lost none of its warmth and yet, perhaps it was the building itself, I felt cold running down my back.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey you fine people :)</p>
<p>I hope you're doing alright! Still enjoying summer break, I'm visiting my parents right now. Returning back home is always accompanied with strange feelings. Most of the days I spent at the lake, reading or writing. Once more I fell in love with Interview with the Vampire, now reading the novel for the first time after keeping the book in my shelf for about 10 years. It contains a certain poetic and melancholy that really fascinates me. </p>
<p>Anyway. Thanks for dropping by. I wish you all the best!</p>
<p>See you next week!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A few days later I was standing with folded arms next to my easel and waited. Paper and charcoal lay ready, the figure drawing course could begin. I had rolled up the sleeves of my shirt as usual.</p>
<p>My hair had been combed back with pomade, but in the meantime it had come loose and had slipped into my brows. Thin shadows lay under my piercing looking eyes. I had not been able to sleep well during the previous nights; the words of the priest were still in my head. He had spoken of love, minutes after he had put it into such narrow limits in his sermon that one could hardly speak of such. I could not understand it, and so my spirit ran in circles, ran off the always same, reluctant thoughts, which did not want to lead to a solution. I do not know when the decline of my faith began. In my childhood I willingly absorbed the teachings of the church. At night I had long conversations, with God, with Jesus, with those patron saints who seemed most appropriate to me. It probably went on like this until the death of my father; then our relationship became more fragile. My coming to Weimar must have been the death blow. Initially surprised at how little role institutional religions played in the lives of my fellow students, I soon noticed that my prayers dwindled and my awareness of sin and justice gradually disappeared. Something in me seemed to have been extinguished and I could not rekindle that fire within me.</p>
<p>After a quick glance at the watch I raised my head and let my gaze wander. Here and there the rest of the students chatted, some joked, some laughed. I discovered Eld and Gunther in a corner. They waved at me, I returned the greeting, then I turned to my easel. As usual, I kept in the background. I was no friend of shallow conversation, and what else could I talk about with these people? Besides, the course had started ten minutes ago. Alone: There was no trace of Klee. That wasn't like him. Always concerned about harmony, he also attached great importance to punctuality.</p>
<p>Shortly afterwards, voices were heard from the corridor and the sound of rapid steps, thrown back from the walls, filled the air. Seconds later two men appeared in the door frame of the studio. The first was Klee. He seemed more cheerful than usual, a broad grin adorned his face. A man, a little over thirty years old, followed him. Engrossed in an animated conversation, they first ignored the students around them and seemed as happy as old acquaintances who had not seen each other for a long time.</p>
<p>Only when they became aware of the waiting looks of the others did they interrupt their conversation.</p>
<p>Klee greeted us, then introduced his companion as a former student of the Bauhaus, a student from the very beginning, an architect for his part and now head of his own office in Leipzig, from which he had already come quite a long way. At Gropius' request, he returned to the Bauhaus for this semester to help out in teaching and in the architecture office. His name was: Erwin Schmidt.</p>
<p>No sooner had Klee mentioned this name than a murmur went through the hall. Presumably, the inclined architecture lover had already heard of him; at best, the name meant nothing to me. With a motionless face I looked at the man who held out next to Klee with crossed arms. Tall and slim, dressed in a dark grey three-piece suit, a confident smile played around his lips. A cheerful, blotchy red was visible on the otherwise pale skin of his cheeks. Blond, clean-cut hair framed an oval face of striking features and bushy brows, in which a pair of intelligent, water-blue eyes gazed intently into the room. They clung to me for a moment, then continued on their way. Not noticeable enough to be noticed, I thought, of course.</p>
<p>Then Klee clapped.</p>
<p>"Ladies and gentlemen," he said with a smile, "we've kept you waiting long enough now, let's begin."</p>
<p>But the middle of the hall, the place where the model usually stayed, was still empty.</p>
<p>"Master Klee", Marie finally replied. "The model fell ill. Didn't they tell you?"</p>
<p>Klee denied it. What followed was a rapid exchange of gestures and a few mumbled words among the students, occasional glances at the clock and perplexed looks from Klee. The latter sent a young student down to the gate, where, to everyone's regret, this was merely confirmed.</p>
<p>"That is of course unfortunate," said Klee, and looked apologetically first at his guest, then at the group. "I think, under the circumstances, we'll have to cancel the course today."</p>
<p>Again a murmur went through the hall, but now much less pleased.</p>
<p>"What a waste of time," muttered a man next to me. I did not know him.</p>
<p>"Can't you get a replacement?" Eld Jinn wanted to know, a strong, blond guy with long hair that he liked to wear knotted at the neck. I knew him slightly, because he was a close friend of Farlan's (my roommate). Most of the time he carried some sort of worn out book cover with him. "We've already got it set up." He started smiling. "What else are we gonna do with the rest of the evening?" he added, half serious, half joking.</p>
<p>"I know what to do," cried Gunther next to him, and they both burst out laughing.</p>
<p>"Of course you are free to stand in for the model," Klee smiled after the two had calmed down and crossed his arms in front of his chest, "but please remember that you have to be nude for this adventure."</p>
<p>General amusement. In this way it went back and forth, and although the sitting students tried to convince Eld with all kinds of shouting, he remained steadfast. Only out of the corner of my eye did I notice how the newcomer, Schmidt, turned to Klee with his hand held in reserve. In a whispering tone of voice they exchanged a few words, in the course of which Klee looked increasingly surprised. I felt as if I could see an amused smile on the younger man's lips; the blue eyes flashed mischievously, as if they were up to something.</p>
<p>"Are you sure?" Klee finally gave way with raised eyebrows, but Schmidt just nodded. "Very well. Thank Herr Schmidt," Klee shouted and clapped his hands before he turned to him again. "You don't have to do this, Herr Schmidt, you know that, don't you?"</p>
<p>"Am I not here to work?" he laughed. "Consider it a tribute to the old days." Without waiting for Klee to react, he got down on his knees and untied the knots in his laces.</p>
<p>While the hall had been restless before, it was now dead quiet. Everyone stared at the blond architect, who took off his clothes with a matter of almost routine. Moments later he stood naked in front of us, handed his shirt and trousers to Klee with a friendly smile, before he made his way through us with a firm step into the middle of the hall. As he did so, he passed me, dragging the scent of his aftershave behind him, musk, cinnamon and honey, a strange mixture, I found, unreal, as if intended for a Greek god.</p>
<p>Shortly afterwards Schmidt took up the first pose, had a chair handed to him and sat down, put one leg over the other, his back lowered against the backrest, one arm resting on his knee, while the other relaxedly dangled down. For a while I let my gaze rest on him, looking at the upper body inclined towards me, over which the skin stretched pale and taut over bones and muscles. He might be about ten years older than me, but there was something youthful about him. It was a body of almost antique perfection, except for a fine scar that ran across the right half of his forehead. He looked good, and something whispered in me that he was well aware of it.</p>
<p>Just in this moment Schmidt looked at me, and our eyes met.</p>
<p>"Won't you start?", he said and raised his eyebrows, visibly amused, while some students around me began to laugh. Redness shot me in the cheeks, and I let my gaze sink. How embarrassing. I quietly cursed, realigning the easel again, and for the first time I let the charcoal go down on the fine paper, much too upset about being caught red-handed to have given much thought to my actions.</p>
<p>But whenever I looked at Schmidt, whenever I looked at him for the purpose of the study, he returned my gaze. His eyes had nailed themselves to me and would not move. At some point I was no longer sure who was studying whom and a nervous restlessness seized me. My hands became damp. The strokes became more erratic, almost shaky. Secretly I knew that these sketches would be no good, just like the last time and the time before that. It made me furious.</p>
<p>It went on like that for a few minutes until the bell sounded and, following the usual routine, they tore the sheets off the block. Then Schmidt changed the pose and they started again. It was a fixed choreography, which, not unlike a dance, was repeated several times, until Klee finally approached from the side with a friendly smile and gave Schmidt back his clothes. He quickly dressed. In the meantime, the students collected their sketches, took the easels away and gathered in the middle of the room, where they laid out the usual patchwork of work results.</p>
<p>Some things were criticized, others were emphasized. But my sketch was ignored. It seemed less naturalistic than usual, or at least I felt that way. I had drawn the lines hard and straight, breaking the body down to the essential forms, like a block of marble on which one had only just begun to work out the basic structures. It was a dilettante work in my eyes; if Schmidt hadn't stared at me so consistently, I would have been capable of much more. It was unpleasant for me to see it lying there so naked. With every passing second, my self-doubt grew until I would have preferred to take the sheet and leave the room.</p>
<p>Full of restlessness I held out between the others, tapped my foot on the floor, played with my fingertips, bit my lower lip. The shirt was hanging between my armpits soaked with sweat. It was better, I tore up the drawing, as I had done the week before, it was better that it had never existed. After Klee, I still had half a year to complete my final project; how I would succeed in this in my present creative state was a mystery to me.</p>
<p>Lost in thought, I overheard the closing words, and as the people around me began to move, I felt as if I was awakening from a deep, long dream. They passed the middle of the hall, blocked my way out, chatted, laughed, did not pay any more attention to me than I did to them. Finally I found my way to the centre and the floor there was already empty except for my drawing. Quickly I bent down to the picture, a picture of shame, as I found in the meantime, picked it up from the floor and rolled it with rapid movements. I would destroy it as soon as I got the chance, but secretly I feared that I might be caught in the act. No one was to see the battle I had been fighting for weeks, I thought. No one would know how weak I was in reality.</p>
<p>"Did you do the sketch?"</p>
<p>My fingers tightened around the thick drawing paper. Slowly, my lips twisting into a fine line, I turned. It was Schmidt who addressed me, of course, burying his hands in his pockets. With his head slightly tilted back, he curiously looked down at me from above. Some of the blonde strands of hair had come out of his hairstyle, having been neatly combed back beforehand, and were now hanging in his forehead. He seemed amused at my haste, but I only took note of it casually, feeling that I had been caught and deceived.</p>
<p>"It would have been better if you had not kept staring at me." But my irritated sound seemed to fuel the grin on Schmidt's lips.</p>
<p>"I have upset you," he then remarked, and apparently made no effort to conceal his amusement at that observation. He approached me with a light step. The sound of his suit shoes echoed from the high walls of the room whose only guests we were now. There was something light, almost dancing in his movements, not unlike a child whose attention is drawn by something special.</p>
<p>"Excuse me," he said. "You seemed like someone who could handle such things."</p>
<p>With these words, he stopped beside me. I opened my mouth to reply, but not a syllable left my lips. Instead, I could feel the look on his face, penetrating and probing as before. "I must have been mistaken," Schmidt closed casually and shrugged his shoulders, as one does when something seemed unimportant, even trivial. "The outcome seems to have been unimpaired." With a quick nod, he pointed to the drawing in my hand.</p>
<p>"If you think so." I looked back at him with an unmoved expression, while my heart began to beat faster. Schmidt seemed so confident that it sent a shiver down my spine. How much of this could be real? How much facade? He seemed like someone who knew his place in life - even acknowledged it.</p>
<p>"Let me take a look at it?" With that same smile, Schmidt reached out to me, but I didn't go for it.</p>
<p>"You've just had a chance to look at it," I rebuffed. "That should do."</p>
<p>"To be honest, no." His hand rested unmoved in the air. "In the chaos of students and sheets of paper, a drawing can hardly be effective."</p>
<p>Now I smelled it again, that note of musk, cinnamon and honey.</p>
<p>"I would like to keep it to myself," I said after a moment's hesitation.</p>
<p>"Why?"</p>
<p>"It is no good."</p>
<p>"Says who?"</p>
<p>"Says I."</p>
<p>Then Schmidt began to laugh, and I, not understanding why, pulled a face in rising rage.</p>
<p>"What's so funny?", I burst out and wiped the laughter off Schmidt's face.</p>
<p>"It's not the artist who judges his work, it's the viewer," he said, and there was a certain indulgence in his voice. "It is the curse of the creative professions." The smile returned to his lips. "I wish it looked different in real life, but I don't want to lie to you." With these words, he offered me his hand again. "So - may I have a look? I won't laugh, I promise."</p>
<p>Our glances met, and I couldn't escape the mischief that was in Schmidt's eyes. For a moment I thought about the past weeks, the criticism and judgments that had come down on me, from Klee, from other students, even from my friends. I thought of the doubts and worries in view of the approaching end of my studies, the disorientation, the ever increasing, almost childlike defiance. In the end I handed the drawing to Schmidt before I understood what I was actually doing. He turned around to one of the work tables and spread the paper on top of it.</p>
<p>"You should refrain from rolling it up so tightly," he casually remarked, while his eyes flitted nimbly over the sketch as if they were absorbing even the smallest detail, as if he wanted to burn each stroke into his memory with all his might. "What you bend too far, eventually breaks. The fibres will tear, you know. Do you have a folder?"</p>
<p>"Of course." I followed him with my arms crossed over his chest. "But it won't end up there, so why bother?"</p>
<p>"I don't understand," Schmidt replied without looking up. "Where else would you keep it?"</p>
<p>"In the oven?"</p>
<p>Schmidt then looked at me out of the corner of his eye, for a second, but the mixture of surprise and disbelief was plain to see. Then he turned his attention again to the sketch, this time earnestly, his brow furrowed. Now and then his fingers stroked the paper. They were strong without being rustic, not unfamiliar with hard work, and yet well-groomed. They touched the paper only gently, in the desire not to smudge the charcoal. Even the clothing, I noticed now, nestled so perfectly to his body that it had to be the product of skilful, well-paid tailor's hands.</p>
<p>"Do you like it?", I asked after a while, whereupon Schmidt carefully rolled up the sketch and returned it to me.</p>
<p>"What I think of it is unimportant."</p>
<p>"You said a moment ago that it was up to the viewer to decide."</p>
<p>"I suppose so."</p>
<p>"So you don't like it?"</p>
<p>"That's not what I said."</p>
<p>"You're beginning to get on my nerves, Herr Schmidt."</p>
<p>He laughed. "I'm sorry about that." But the look he gave me said just the opposite. "My opinion isn't going to get you anywhere, that's all."</p>
<p>"Why not?"</p>
<p>"Well..." He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the workbench. But before he could even begin to answer, there was a knock at the door, a fleeting, almost playful knock. It was Klee.</p>
<p>"There you are," he called out with a smile. "I thought you'd already left. I looked everywhere for you."</p>
<p>"Well, obviously I'm here," replied Schmidt, who returned the smile with confidence.</p>
<p>"And chatting with the students. So it shall be." Rubbing his hands together, he glanced back and forth between Schmidt and me, until the smile slowly faded."You won't forget dinner with Kandinsky and Gropius, will you?"</p>
<p>"Sure."</p>
<p>Klee then turned to walk again, but Schmidt was quicker. "Wait!" he shouted. "We were just finished."</p>
<p>Were we?, I thought with a frown, but preferred to remain silent. Without waiting for another reaction, Schmidt placed his hand on my shoulder. In his thoughts he was already working elsewhere and his gaze no longer seemed to reach me either.</p>
<p>"It was a pleasure", he said without much emphasis, a phrase of politeness, no more. "What is your name?"</p>
<p>"Ackermann," I replied.</p>
<p>"Herr Ackermann." He turned to leave. "Don't roll the paper, okay?"</p>
<p>He laughed, and I responded modestly. Moments later, Schmidt left the atelier with Klee. Silently, with the drawing still in my hands, I looked after them and sighed, as soon as the door behind them had fallen shut. An unsympathetic fellow, I thought, but a first impression, no more.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ah, Erwin, finally. You guys have all been patient :) Please forgive me the change of name - Schmidt is the German equivalent of Smith, and since he is from Leipzig I just couldn't resist. The SCH is pronounced like SH, should you not be familiar with German pronunciation.</p>
<p>If you're not yet acquainted with the art of Paul Klee, I recommend you check it out :) it's really quite interesting.</p>
<p>I hope you liked the chapter. Have a nice week and see you all next Friday!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A pub like any other, called Ilmschlösschen, bursting with people. Music filled the room, people danced exuberantly in one of the corners specially provided for this purpose. The air was so thick and humid that one could have cut it, used up and exhausted like most of the people who came here that evening despite everything. Life, here it tasted of liquor, men's sweat and cigarette smoke. The furniture had to be from pre-war times, dark polished, stained wood here and there. There was something oppressive and heavy above everything, but with enough alcohol you could overlook that too. In one corner stood a dark green tiled stove, richly decorated. The mood was exuberant, the minds at ease. Old photographs and newspaper clippings covered dark green painted walls. In one corner there was a piano, to which a brave drunkard dared now and then; they were usually quickly chased away by the musicians present. Newcomers squeezed themselves standing between those already present. Not far from the bar, at a table right next to the piano, I sat with my companions.</p><p>"My God," moaned Farlan, who, loaded with overflowing glasses, staggered back to us from the counter. He had not been sober for a long time. Crashing he placed the glasses on the damp table top. "Did you ever see this place so crowded?" With a fleeting gesture, he wiped his hands from his trousers and opened the top buttons of his shirt. A thin film of sweat covered his forehead. Isabelle immediately grabbed one of the glasses, put it to her lips and drank. With greedy gulps we emptied it halfway, then I stroked my lips with the back of my hand and put it back on the table. Thereupon I rolled up my shirt sleeves over my elbows.</p><p>"It's much too hot in here," I moaned.</p><p>"Don't be silly, it has to be like this," Farlan returned and tapped his forehead with his index finger. "Makes the rubles roll. Slaves of capital wherever you look."</p><p>"Jeez, you talk like Eld."</p><p>"If you've got something better to say..." We exchanged glances and I raised my eyebrows provocatively, whereupon Farlan struck the table with his flat hand and bent over to me, as if he was looking for words for a great idea - but he just sighed and sank into himself.</p><p>"I don't know," he growled and reached for his glass. "It'll never change, the people here want it that way."</p><p>"Man, we're so defeatist today." Isabelle started to laugh. "You're just drunk, that's all. Get over it."</p><p>"And are you sober, or what?" With these words, Farlan pulled her into his arms and gave her a kiss on the lips, after which I turned back to my beer. Shortly afterwards, the two had become so entangled in each other that the people standing around - mostly men - began to whistle.</p><p>"Oy." Several times I knocked my fist on the table. No reaction. I called them by name, but the result was the same. It was only when I took Farlan's glass and drank it in one long gulp that Farlan let go of Isabelle.</p><p>"Are you crazy?" he snarled.</p><p>"I didn't come here to watch you fumble," I returned in a tempted voice and put the emptied glass back on the table. "If you want to fuck, go home and get it over with."</p><p>"Calm the fuck down." Farlan, visibly annoyed, pulled the glass towards him. It seemed to me that both his cheeks and Isabelle's were glowing red in the light of the lamps. Without looking at them any further, I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket (it hung over the back of my chair) and pulled out a cigarette box. It was made of silver. Ornaments were embossing its surface. Two birds sat in opposite corners. One of them carried a twig in its beak. I opened it, offered them both a cigarette, took one myself and gave us a light. A little later, triple smoke enveloped our table.</p><p>"We would make out less if you were less off track," Isabelle finally smiled over the tip of her cigarette. Her lips were dark red and part of the lipstick now stuck to the cigarette between her fingers.</p><p>"You are even more silent and absent than usual," Farlan agreed. "Did something happen in the figure drawing course?"</p><p>"Perhaps," I returned. The two raised their eyebrows in silent surprise.</p><p>"Oh yes, the unexpected visitor." Isabelle slipped the tip of her cigarette off the ashtray and reached for her glass. "Gunther and Marie told me about it."</p><p>"A visit?" Farlan asked. " From whom?"</p><p>"By Erwin Schmidt of Leipzig," Isabelle glanced at him with a meaningful look.</p><p>"Never." Farlan looked for a moment as if his cigarette fell out of his hand. It burned unnoticed between his fingers, while he stared at us with big eyes. "The architect?"</p><p>I nodded, whereupon the two broke out into almost hysterical laughter.</p><p>"And there you are, sitting so calmly before us?!" Again and again Farlan shook his head.</p><p>"I don't know what all the fuss is about", I returned and grabbed my glass. "One architect among many, what's the point?"</p><p>"What?" Farlan reached for his head. "The guy's in his early thirties with a portfolio that some people still dream about just before retirement! The conference centre in Leipzig, the new stadium in Vienna, the University of Economics and Culture in Hamburg - it's all him, and these are just the bigger projects."</p><p>"I thought you were more into photography, Farlan," I attempted to distract them.</p><p>"Did you talk to each other?" he asked.</p><p>"Yes, we did." I drank. "He was arrogant and shallow and far too sure of himself. Not someone I would willingly waste my time on."</p><p>"To be honest, he has quite a reputation," smiled Isabelle and let the tip of her index finger playfully slip over the rim of her glass. "Though not in the way you might think."</p><p>"What then?"</p><p>"When he was a student here, he must have lived a very turbulent life. Forbidden parties, absinthe, drugs, naked young men in the park. She laughed. "Gunther once said there were still secret photo albums in the archive catacombs."</p><p>"How does Gunther always know these things?" muttered Farlan incredulously.</p><p>Isabelle put out her cigarette. "Nobody saw her, of course. "Who knows if they even exist. In the end, most of them came fresh from the war, probably just wanting to forget what happened. Is it true he did sit for you?"</p><p>I nodded. "He helped out. The actual model was sick."</p><p>"Just like that?" Farlan frowned.</p><p>"Just like that."</p><p>"He didn't mind?"</p><p>"I think he actually thought it was quite all right. I guess he didn't mind nudity. He seems to like being the center of attention."</p><p>"Boy. This guy knows what self-confidence is."</p><p>"Looks that way."</p><p>"Did you get on well with him?"</p><p>"No. Why? He practically forced me to show him my drawing and gave me useless, unsolicited advice, like I was still in Prep."</p><p>"Levi, think about it." Farlan now reached across the table and grabbed my glass from which he was drinking. "Six months from now we're gonna walk out of here into real life. Imagine if you could start with him. What chance would that be?"</p><p>"What am I supposed to do in Leipzig?"</p><p>"What am I supposed to do in Leipzig?" Farlan imitated me. "You're a graphic designer, for Christ's sake. Do you think they still paint everything in those offices by hand? They need people like you to print the designs. Are you gonna be stuck in this fucking town forever? Besides us, the Philistine is dripping out of every fucking pore. Just have a look around."</p><p>I shrugged. In fact, I hadn't given it a second thought. Thinking back to Schmidt, I wasn't sure if a collaboration between us would be fruitful. "I don't think they could use a naturalist like me," I replied, emphasizing the word 'naturalist' beyond all measure.</p><p>"You take criticism too much to heart." The waiter passed us and Farlan jumped up, ordered another round and sank back into his seat. Wisps of ash-blond hair got sweaty in his eyes and were brushed back. Then he put his arm around Isabelle and looked at me with penetrating grey eyes. "It doesn't matter. Let's stick to the point: You've seen one of today's greatest architects naked?" He grinned.</p><p>"Possibly."</p><p>"And?"</p><p>"And what?"</p><p>"How did it feel?"</p><p>"I have no idea what you want from me, Farlan."</p><p>"Did he have a big cock? Tell me."</p><p>I made a face. "He kept staring at me like a madman. I don't know why." In fact, I had barely been paying attention to his penis.</p><p>"He did what?" Isabelle started giggling.</p><p>"He was staring. All the time. Barely knew how to draw, he was so penetrating."</p><p>"Penetrating?" Farlan smirked. He was too drunk not to get silly.</p><p>"Shut up." The mere thought of it was enough to make me feel uncomfortable again. "Then he insisted on seeing the sketch. In the end, he left me, just like that. You can imagine how ridiculous I felt." I snapped my fingers. "Superficial, narcissistic, unsympathetic."</p><p>"Was he handsome?" Isabelle asked. "He always looks very dapper in the press photos."</p><p>"What?</p><p>"Whether he was handsome," she repeated herself, and her grin widened. "Naked."</p><p>I put out my cigarette and took a sip of beer. "You'd better ask the other girls in class, not me."</p><p>"So you were talking," it came from Farlan. I sighed, it sounded annoyed.</p><p>"Yes, we did."</p><p>"Will he be back tomorrow?"</p><p>"I doubt it. But he'll be teaching, probably all semester."</p><p>"There you go." Again Farlan slapped the table with his flat hand so hard that the glasses started to dance. "Hang on to him, you hear? Then it's only a matter of time before you graph his new projects, just wait and see!"</p><p>"The guy's unbearable."</p><p>"So what? Business is business."</p><p>"Can we please change the subject?" I grumbled and my friends' laughter filled the room.</p><p>Afterwards we talked about the usual things: art, culture, politics. Since the state elections in February, the future of the Bauhaus was uncertain, the National Socialists on the rise. Money was scarcer than ever, and it was rumoured that Gropius was secretly thinking about dissolving the Bauhaus. There was much talk, but nothing was certain. Isabelle and Farlan seemed cheerful. They looked towards the future with open hearts, while I became visibly calmer and let my gaze wander through the hall. What good was a craft if my aesthetics did not fit into the Zeitgeist? Find yourself, then you will find your expression, our masters had often claimed that. But what if there was no fixed self? What then?</p><p>I thought of Schmidt and the aura of quiet confidence that surrounded him. He seemed like a man who knew from the bottom of his heart what the meaning of his existence was, who only had to get up and collect what life owed him, nothing easier than that.</p><p>Why had he not told him what he thought of his sketch? With my eyes lowered, I once again brought the glass to my lips and drank. In an environment in which everyone was convinced that they had found the true aesthetic poetics, this deliberate distance was something that seemed strangely alien to me. It was not important, his opinion, it was not goal-oriented, he had said. But why?</p><p>At that moment the door to the pub opened and a man entered. He was tall and wore a black coat that almost reached the floor. Blond hair shimmered in the light of the lamps and a pair of blue eyes glided across the crowd. For a moment my breath stopped, but then I realized that I did not see Schmidt before me, but the priest. He noticed me and we nodded at each other, then he disappeared, accompanied by some men his age, towards the counter. Motionlessly I looked after him. It happened a few times like that: whenever a tall, blond gentleman entered the room, I thought for a moment that Erwin Schmidt was in front of me. Of course he never was.</p><p>"Something different, Levi," Farlan suddenly said and wiped the beer froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand. In the meantime the waiter had brought us the new drinks.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"You see that girl over there?" He nodded into a corner of the barroom and I followed his gesture with my eyes. Not far from us, on a wall hung with pictures, stood a woman of our age, accompanied by some young men. The men were familiar to me, the woman was not; they were Eld and Gunther. The woman was about my height, slim without looking scrawny, and wore a knee-length dress printed with flowers. Her round face was framed by chin-length, red-blond hair. She looked in our direction. When she noticed that I was looking back at her, a smile came to her lips. She did not avoid me.</p><p>"What about her?" I asked Farlan.</p><p>"She's been staring at you for half an hour as if you were the only man in the room," he grinned. "Do you know her?" Once more I looked in her direction. She was still looking at him.</p><p>"No," I replied. Although, I had seen her once at the Weaving workshop, but that was a long time ago. At that moment she broke away from the wall and approached us with a naturalness I had never seen in a woman before.</p><p>"Evening", she greeted us with a smile. We returned the greeting; in truth, however, her attention was directed only to me. In the background, the band started playing a Charleston.</p><p>"What can we do for you, pretty lady?", Farlan asked next to me and with a sweeping gesture. "You seem to have your eye on our dear friend?"</p><p>She laughed, and it sounded bell-like and sincere. "You could say that." Out of the corner of her eye she looked at me, then at Farlan. "Would it be possible for me to borrow him for a moment?"</p><p>"Of course!" cried Farlan, before I could say anything in return, and grabbed me by the shoulders. "He's a little shy, good Levi, but the truth is he's been talking all evening about nothing but wanting to dance with you sometime."</p><p>"Oh really?" She put her hands on her hips and turned to me completely. "So is he dancing, your precious Levi?"</p><p>I gave Farlan a furious look. "If it can't be avoided, maybe," I then murmured and flinched, because Farlan kicked me against my shin under the table.</p><p>"What he really wanted to say was he can't wait." Several times Farlan patted me on the shoulders in a comradely way. "See you later, my friend, comrade, companion. Remember us now and then, out there, far away." He let go of me and disappeared, not without a triumphant laugh, to the bar.</p><p>Well, I thought and got up. Whatever disturbed my thoughts should be welcome that evening.</p><p>"Don't expect virtuosity," I said in passing and without giving it a second glance.</p><p>"There are so many lousy dancers in the world," she returned, her smile unchanged, "I would be surprised if you were the worst of them."</p><p>With that she reached for my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. Soon after, we were one with the droning rhythms of an endless night. That she was celebrating life, I soon realized. There was no trace of shame in her, no restraint shaped her nature. As if in ecstasy her limbs twisted and only the occasional glance in my direction assured me that we danced together, not next to each other. Whenever we were in danger of losing touch in the turmoil she reached out to me and as if I had only waited for this invitation, I pulled her closer. Eventually she bounced against my chest with too much momentum, and only her arms, which wrapped around my neck, prevented her from falling to the ground. Together we laughed. She is light as a feather, I thought, and radiates the scent of women's sweat and vanilla.</p><p>"I'm thirsty," she sighed after three songs of intense dancing. "Do you have cigarettes?"</p><p>"Over by the table." I nodded towards the place where Farlan and Isabelle were engaged in conversation. Then she reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a pack of her own.</p><p>"Why ask if you have your own?" I wanted to know.</p><p>"You must give men the opportunity to be gentlemen," she casually replied and slipped a cigarette between her lips. "Would you like to?" I did.</p><p>Together we strolled to the bar where I bought us two beers. Shortly afterwards we found ourselves leaning against a wall, drinking, talking, while we watched the others in the crowd. Only now, so close to my side, I really looked at her. Her face glowed red from the physical exertion before. Freckles ran down her cheeks and snub nose. Though she was sweaty, like me, she didn't seem to mind the heat. She was pretty, very pretty, I couldn't deny it.</p><p>"It weren't you, by the way," she said.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"The worst dancer." She smiled at me, and I said it back.</p><p>"Lucky, I guess." I leaned my head against the wall and looked at her out of the corner of my eye.</p><p>"You come here often?" she asked.</p><p>"Now and then."</p><p>"How often would you say is this now and then?"</p><p>But instead of answering, I puffed on my cigarette again and watched her in silence.</p><p>"Not much of a bon vivant, is he?" she smiled and began to laugh at the expression caught on my face. "Did your friends force you here?"</p><p>"Would that be bad?"</p><p>"I don't know." She shifted her weight from one leg to the other. "It's not like you have to hide, you know?"</p><p>"I'll tell Farlan you said so." I put the glass to my lips and took a big sip. "So he can finally take the padlock off the door to my room."</p><p>She laughed, then we didn't say anything for a while.</p><p>"You're also from the Bauhaus, aren't you?" she asked then and I nodded. That was the case.</p><p>"Mural painting?"</p><p>"Graphic print."</p><p>She nodded with a certain weight of meaning, while continuing to let her gaze rest on me. "Metal workshop," she then said, not without pride, pointing at herself with the thumb of her left hand. Not many women made it in there.</p><p>"I thought I saw you at the Weaving workshop once."</p><p>"I probably visited someone. It happens."</p><p>"It does."</p><p>"Do you like it? The apprenticeship."</p><p>"Mostly.</p><p>"I don't suppose there's any activity that keeps you going 24 hours a day. And your name is Levi?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Her smile widened. "Well, Levi..."</p><p>But she did not finish her sentence. Two heavy male hands lay on her shoulders from behind. As if struck by lightning, she drove around. Three men stood behind her, Eld, the blond hair tied to a ponytail, and Gunther, small, stocky and with short, black hair. The third, also owner of the unsolicitedly placed hands, had light brown curls, his neck shaved off, and wrinkles that made him look older than he probably was.</p><p>"Oulo!" she shouted and fought her way free from his clutches. "How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up behind me like that?"</p><p>"We are leaving." He said it in a tone of voice that would not tolerate any contradiction. "Drink up and come on, we'll wait outside. And you." He approached me with a sinister expression. His index finger, which he pointed at me, he rammed into my chest. "Keep your hands off her, understand? If you know what's good for you."</p><p>"Oulo! Pull yourself together!"</p><p>The two began to fight in a language I didn't understand.</p><p>"I want that guy to know where he stands with me," Oulo finally said.</p><p>"It hasn't escaped my notice," I replied. He glanced back at me with narrowed eyes, the mood suddenly tense to breaking. Fights were not my passion, but I was not weak. I could deal with a guy like him. Oulo pulled a face and grabbed me by the collar.</p><p>"Are you trying to offend me?"</p><p>"Find out."</p><p>"Oulo, geez," Eld now joined in and grabbed his companion by the shoulder. Gently he took his fingers off my collar and pulled him back. "Shut up, you're completely drunk. I know him, he's all right." He turned to her. "We'll wait outside."</p><p>"Thanks."</p><p>"Hurry up."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>A short time later, they disappeared through the crowd outside.</p><p>"What an idiot," she hissed and gave me an apologetic look. "I'm sorry. Oulo has been very... protective."</p><p>"Your boyfriend?"</p><p>"My brother." She rolled her eyes, then looked at my shirt and sighed. "You're all stained." And indeed, during the argument, much of the beer had spilled from my glass onto my shirt.</p><p>"It's all right," I murmured. She handed me a handkerchief and I dabbed myself with it. "Wine would be a different matter."</p><p>"Lucky in disguise, eh?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>She slipped the cigarette between her lips and smoked it quickly. "Anyway," she said casually, squeezing the stub out in a nearby ashtray and reaching for her drink. "I must be off. Oulo will be furious if he has to fetch me again. Just give me the handkerchief back next time, okay? You know Eld?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"Give it to him and it will come back to me." In one long sip she emptied the beer and put it on the nearest table. Then she approached me and kissed me on the cheek. "Thanks for the beer, Levi." She winked at me, turned on her heel and followed her companions out into the night. It all happened so fast, I could hardly react. Wordlessly, with the beer still in my hand, I looked after her before returning to my table. Farlan started to yell when I reached them.</p><p>"What the hell was that?" he shouted and ran his hand through his sweaty, damp hair.</p><p>"I don't know." Unimpressed, I watched Farlan begin to put our things together. "A drunken girl with too much eagerness, I guess. And in future, please stop renting me out like I'm working for you."</p><p>"Isn't she at the metal workshop?" Isabelle asked, reaching for her jacket. "Her name is Petra. Petra Rål. Swedish, I think. You really don't know her?"</p><p>"Never met her."</p><p>"Sometimes you'd really think you weren't from this world, Levi. "Get your jacket. We're going home."</p><p>"Don't forget your cigarette case." With a casual gesture, Farlan pointed to the table. "I don't want you to lose it someday."</p><p>I took it with a wave of thanks and tucked it away in the inside pocket of my jacket. We paid for our beer and stepped out into the night.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I wonder how many times it happens that Levi sees Erwin's dick without any obvious sexual context at a fanfiction page like this.</p><p>Hello! Thanks for dropping by again! I had been wondering if there would be any comments once Erwin enters the stage and you didn't dissapoint me! Thank you a lot for the subscriptions, the comments and what more :)</p><p>Last weekend was spent by me and some friends in Leipzig, the city where Bauhaus Erwin's architecture office is located. Quite a lovely city, which suits him. There are many buildings from the time around 1920 and a few houses which I would totally trust him to design here. I took a few pictures, maybe I'll add them when the occasion is right ;) If you want to get a nice impression, you should check out pictures of the Grassi Museum Leipzig via Google (and such). </p><p>Later today I'll be off for Weimar, because there is also one of the Master Buildings open for visit (I might also be able to catch a glimpse of the studio building). We'll be close to 95°F (35°F) today, so wish me luck :')</p><p>Have a nice week and stay healthy!</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the late upload; I've been drowning in work this week. Thank you all for the comments which certainly will also be replied later this week :) See you guys around!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next day I had almost forgotten my encounter with Petra Rål from the metal workshop. Instead, I spent the hours alternately in my chamber and in the workshop, only interrupted by occasional conversations with Farlan in the kitchen. It was difficult for me.</p>
<p>Every now and then I found myself staring out of the window, knowing that I actually had work to do. It was difficult for me. The sky, it had always had a special attraction for me. It was a never-ending back and forth of colours, the clouds the canvas, the sun the paint. Light was refracted, showing a richness in broad ranges from blue to red and orange that could rarely be seen elsewhere. Occasionally it seemed to me that on some days the clouds flowed over the city more quickly than on others. Then I wished I could be a part of them and say farewell to the tormenting isolation of my existence, but what good would it have done me? Where should I have flowed to? It was a question that I could not answer any more than I could answer what I wanted to be in life. It was probably no coincidence that artists have been working on these questions for centuries.</p>
<p>Perhaps that was the very essence of things, I thought, pencil in hand, a sketchbook in front of me on the table: to let go of control and simply go with the flow of life. Maybe this capacity to let go was what marked out the people who were the happiest.</p>
<p>From time to time I took a look at the clock. There was a restlessness in me that grew stronger the longer the shadows grew in the afternoon. In the early evening, when it was time to pack my things for the evening drawing class, my heart was beating up to my neck.</p>
<p>Farlan accompanied me. He carried a camera around his neck, because his plan was to take one last-minute shot at photography before the sunlight became too weak. Right now it had the right intensity. Golden hour, that's what you would call it, he said. Hair, skin, clothes, the whole world, they all rarely came out better than in those golden sixty minutes.</p>
<p>I followed his utterances only half-heartedly; whenever I looked at him, I saw his lust-distorted face before me. Until the early hours of the morning he had been engaged with Isabelle. I didn't get a wink of sleep that night.</p>
<p>"Are you listening to me at all?", Farlan asked, as I took out my cigarette case and lit a one, my eyes turned absent-mindedly into the distance.</p>
<p>"Not really", I replied with the honesty that was so characteristic of me.</p>
<p>"You're already thinking of the best way to kiss Schmidt's ass, aren't you?" he grinned. "This is gonna be good, I tell you, this is gonna be good!"</p>
<p>"You think so?"</p>
<p>"Yeah?!"</p>
<p>"All right."</p>
<p>Then we reached the main building and our paths diverged.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Double upload time :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When I reached the atelier, I found the usual hustle and bustle. Some students had already set themselves up behind their easels, others were just getting their equipment in place. I joined them and quickly positioned myself in my usual spot.Only then did I realize that my cigarette case was not in the usual pocket of my jacket but in the inside pocket of my trousers, and that it bothered me how I was sitting there now. So I put it together with my jacket in the compartment that had been specially provided for it, where all sorts of odds and ends were stored next to my drawing utensils. It was difficult for me to concentrate. Again and again I let my gaze glide through the room. But neither Klee nor Erwin Schmidt were present.</p>
<p>Silently I looked at the people around me. Occasionally they noticed my staring and turned away, now and again I was greeted, but on the whole I remained alone. Most of them knew about my silent, rough manner and no longer bothered to involve me in conversation.</p>
<p>As on the previous evening, Klee arrived at the atelier a few minutes late. All heads turned to him. Again he was accompanied by Schmidt, again both were engrossed in conversation with each other, joking, but so quietly that the students could not understand them. They greeted the class and announced that Schmidt would sit for them once more, because the model was still ill.</p>
<p>Still during Klee's instructions, Schmidt stepped with calm, firm steps into the middle of the hall, undressed and took his seat. For a moment our eyes met, but his face remained unmoved. No expression in his eyes, no twitching of his eyebrows indicated that we had already introduced ourselves. For a short moment I felt a certain excitement, which soon gave way to quiet frustration. It was nothing, I thought.</p>
<p>The sound of the bell heralded the beginning of the studies. This time, Schmidt wasn't staring. Rather, he seemed to ignore me. No sooner did I turn to my easel than his gaze slipped in another direction and remained there. Although it surprised me secretly, I didn't have time to rack my brains over it. My gaze glided over his body, slower this time, calmer. Not a wrinkle remained hidden from me by the slender limbs, the firm, white skin. Here and there a tendon pushed through, as if God himself had put it there in a whim. I bit my lower lip while I was drawing the first lines on the paper with the chalk. I felt warm when I looked at him like that. His flawlessness was beyond tolerable.</p>
<p>Then the bell sounded again, followed by the rattle of torn off paper. A new pose, a new drawing. With his left knee resting on the floor, Schmidt bent forward, his corresponding arm resting on his knee. With his left hand he supported himself on the seat of a chair, the face that appeared to me in profile, erect, his eyes looking strongly into the distance. Again my gaze glided over him, over the sinewy neck, the muscular shoulders, the taut arms and powerful hands. I couldn't help noticing how the base of the ribs pressed through the firm skin. What would it feel like to place one's fingers on that taut area just below the solar plexus, where the skin seemed to be tightest and yet still allowed such vulnerability?</p>
<p>I became hot and I let the chalk sink for a moment. A twitch went through my loins. I closed my eyes, only to open them again right afterwards. What was that?, I thought. I ran my fingers through my hair, bit my lower lip and continued my work.</p>
<p>I used hard, quick strokes. No longer did I think about what result I wanted to achieve, whether the drawing would satisfy Klee or my fellow students. I drew as if by magic and all thoughts dried up in me until an untiring flow, a thunderous emptiness, was all that remained. And so it went, drawing by drawing, bell by bell, and in the end it was as if time had dissolved in its existence.</p>
<p>When I placed the chalk on the easel, I felt exhausted and drained. While the others were already packing up, I followed Schmidt with my eyes. Only for a moment I wanted to observe this figure, to absorb every movement of the living flesh until the white cotton fabric of the shirt was again laid over it. Then I managed to fold up the easel and put my belongings in their original place. A little away from the other students I went through the individual drawings, skimmed over shapes and patterns that had been engraved into the paper and finally raised my eyebrows in surprise, as if I had just woken up from a dream. It may have been the first time in weeks that the sight of my own drawings did not fill me with sheer disgust.</p>
<p>"Herr Ackermann?" Klee, surrounded by his students, at the foot of the carpet of sketches and drafts, looked in my direction with expectation. "Don't you want to contribute?"</p>
<p>"Sure I do." I said, while the others looked at me.</p>
<p>"You can't decide?" The brightness of Klee's smile increased. I suggested a thin smile, still holding the stack of paper in my hands. It was now Klee himself who approached me. In the background I saw Schmidt, now dressed, but his attention was on the drawings at his feet. As on the day before, he had put his hands in his trouser pockets.</p>
<p>"Please show me what you have there," Klee said and I handed him the sheets. He quickly spread them out on a table nearby. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, pulled a drawing from the pile that seemed particularly appealing to him and placed it at the head end of the paper carpet. A murmur went through the crowd and an embarrassingly warm feeling spread to my cheeks. I went over to the others and quickly joined the back rows. Only now I took the time to look at the other works. Yet my eyes kept wandering back to Schmidt.</p>
<p>"Less naturalistic than last time," said Marie, pointing to my sheet. She, who normally seemed rather cool, smiled. "I like the simple forms. It seems plain, straightforward, but yet it has an emotional depth that touches me deeply."</p>
<p>The nod of approval from those around her.</p>
<p>"What does it trigger in you?" Klee asked.</p>
<p>"I don't know." She swung her head back and forth. "A maelstrom of feelings. There's a constant quivering and urging in these lines that makes me uneasy."</p>
<p>"Me too," exclaimed Eld next to me. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and crossed his muscular arms in front of his chest. Here and there I heard variations of that same utterance, muttered softly from the mouths of others. My hands clenched into fists, and fingernails dug their way into the skin surrounding them. "The way the drawing was done," Eld continued, "reveals an insatiable hunger for life, emphasized by the model's distant gaze." He grimaced, struggling with himself for a moment, while he seemed to choose his words carefully. "The restlessness we feel probably results from this unity between the artist's and the model's perspective. It is impossible for the viewer to resolve this. He must perceive and endure this unity."</p>
<p>"Very beautiful." Klee nodded into the round and his eyes, small but alert and intelligent, grazed me. "Keep it up, Herr Ackermann, keep it up."</p>
<p>A smile came over my lips, barely visible, fleeting. Once again I looked at Schmidt, an unconscious gesture that I hardly noticed. He stood as far away from me as the room would allow, his gaze turned vaguely and seriously towards the crowd. He used the first opportunity that presented itself to direct the attention of the group to another sketch, whose beauty of form he tried to emphasize with matching and well-chosen words. The students turned to him and hung on his lips. They admired and respected him, who was the one who had already made it to something, outside, in real life. Silently I watched the scene and the happiness over the newly achieved success faded away. It's just pride, Farlan would say, and tap my forehead with his index finger. Most people were idiots anyway.</p>
<p>A short time later the group disbanded. As quickly as the people had filled the hall before, as quickly they left it. I stayed behind, stowed my drawings in what seemed to be calmness and put them back. Only casually did I notice how Schmidt got involved in a conversation with Marie, apparently she owned the drawing that he had so explicitly pointed out before.</p>
<p>They chatted with each other almost casually, and a certain cheerfulness surrounded them. It was obvious that his appearance was getting to her; her cheeks were glowing red, her fingers played around her dark hair in nervous gestures. Erwin, on the other hand, smiled the friendliest of smiles, and for a moment I thought I was feeling sick. With clenched jaws I watched them from a distance, and even though I wasn't far away from them, they didn't take any notice of me. The longer I looked at them this way, the more the feeling grew in me that I was observing something that was not meant for my eyes. Finally they strolled past him and Schmidt's eyes touched me once more. This time, however, he stopped. It was the first time that evening that he looked at me.</p>
<p>"Can I do something for you?", he asked as friendly as before. I stared at him, my lips slightly open, but not a word left my lips, only a wave of sudden excitement broke over me.</p>
<p>"No", I managed to say after a phase of unpleasant silence, followed by polite words of farewell from Schmidt's side. A moment later I found myself alone in the atelier.</p>
<p> </p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yo! I'm sorry for hanging you all up to dry for such a long time, but life happened and I had to deal with a lot of personal stuff first. Anyway, I hope I'm back for good now. In return you'll get the uploads of the past 3 months at one day. Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Levi!", it sounded through the kitchen, as soon as I had pushed my way through the wooden front door. "What the fuck took you so long?"</p><p>It was Farlan yelling. He sat in the middle of the small kitchen, which was also the lounge and entrance to the small apartment. If he had still turned his back on me when I arrived, he now turned around and looked in my direction. His eyes appeared to be glassy. In front of him stood several glasses and some bottles of schnapps. The former were empty, the latter half finished. Next to them sat Eld, the sleeves of his shirt still rolled up, his hair now knotted at the back of his neck. Gunther was with them, too. When our eyes met, they raised their hands in greeting. I nodded to them.</p><p>"Went for a walk", I said and took off my jacket, which I hung on a nail in the wall.</p><p>"We missed you," cried Farlan and pointed to a chair at the opposite end of the table. "Sit down, fella, and get drunk! You gotta celebrate good times as they come." There was a slight slur in his voice, it didn't escape me. I frowned, exchanged a look with Eld, who raised his shoulders apologetically, then, sighing, I took a glass from the sideboard and sat down.</p><p>"Where is Isabelle?" I asked.</p><p>"Meeting friends," Farlan grinned, bent over the table and patted Levi's shoulder. "Including Petra."</p><p>"Good for her." I looked at the bottles on the table. Beer was there, of course. Schnapps of different shapes and colours.</p><p>"Sure you don't have any cognac?" Gunther asked in a tearful voice.</p><p>"You and your cognac!" moaned Farlan.</p><p>"What's to celebrate?" I asked and laughter filled the small room.</p><p>"Oh, I don't know, think of something." Farlan poured me a drink before he raised his own glass effusively. "To your grandmother's birthmark!" he shouted and threw the contents down his throat. I looked at him with raised eyebrows, then I followed his example, albeit more reservedly. Thereupon Farlan gave me a refill. It went like this for a while. Half an hour later I was drunk like the rest.</p><p>Between us, the usual fantasies about art and culture, politics and ideology, capitalism and socialism, the struggle of the working class and the role of the vanguard in it unfolded. In general, the mass of students divided into two camps, those who understood art as a political activity and those who did not. I had nothing to do with politics; art served me primarily as an end in itself. Nonetheless, I appreciated the Bauhaus' focus on craftsmanship, because it seemed to offer a realistic chance of making a decent living after graduation.</p><p>I held back with my views, while Farlan increasingly spoke in rage, occasionally encouraged by Eld, on whose lips a wry grin hung. Again and again Farlan slapped his hand on the table and, in addition, took up most of the speaking time for himself. At some point, someone placed a packet of cigarettes in the middle of the table. We smoked until the fume dimmed the light of the lamp. Gunther then opened one of the windows.</p><p>"What about you, Levi?" Eld finally wanted to know and nodded in my direction. An inviting smile appeared on his lips. "Will your work change the world?"</p><p>"Will anyone change anything?" I returned and lit another cigarette. "You can't seriously believe that one person can make a difference, these days."</p><p>"Think of Schiller," Gunther threw in, whereupon all the others began to shake their heads with a moan. "The man did not only write about freedom, he lived it!"</p><p>"The man is an unparalleled Philistine," grumbled Farlan, but Gunther raised his hand and cut off his word.</p><p>"To commit high treason in order to become a writer, you can't be more avant-garde!"</p><p>"This is old news," I replied and scraped the ashes off a tin ashtray. "The guy's been dead a hundred years, you can't compare the circumstances of then with now, it doesn't work."</p><p>"What it takes is a new human ideal! Just look at Russia, Levi. Think of Marx! Think of the possibilities!"</p><p>It seemed only natural that Farlan should bring in the Russian Revolution of all things. "Russia? Does that sound like socialist freedom to you, what's going on there right now? You can't be serious."</p><p>"It was the work of one man who made them do it. Think of the Kapital. Think of the Communist Manifesto!"</p><p>"Nonsense. What about Büchner? Victor Hugo? They wrote about the same thing, and much earlier. If only enough people think the same thing at the same time, it becomes Zeitgeist, then it will prevail. Period." I poured myself a drink. My fingertips already felt numb and tingling. "You can tear your hair out over it, it won't change anything. The work of one is a drop in the ocean." I put the glass down. "We change nothing."</p><p>"But we contribute," mumbled Farlan.</p><p>"Perhaps."</p><p>"Do you believe in anything, Levi?" Eld looked at me relentlessly from those narrow, drunken eyes. "When I first saw you, I thought you were an idealist. A revolutionary. I'd never seen such drawings as yours in the prep courses, they were magnificent."</p><p>"He's a Catholic," Farlan said next to him, as if that explained a lot. "He even goes to church. Every Sunday."</p><p>"Shut up," I hissed, irritated.</p><p>"So then you do believe." Eld raised his hands. "Tell me. Why are you here? You could have studied art anywhere else. With Farlan I know, with Gunther it's obvious, I don't have to ask myself, but what about you? We've known each other two years, and nobody knows what the fuck is going on in your head."</p><p>"Sometimes I'm not sure if he knows it himself", Farlan grinned, while he poured himself some more brandy. Without a word, I took the glass from Farlan's hands and threw it against the opposite wall, where it burst with a deafening sound.</p><p>"What are you doing?!" Farlan yelled at me, while Gunther and Eld started to laugh with a whinny. For a moment we stared at each other with a mixture of anger and frustration. I hated it when he spoke about me in my presence. It made me furious.</p><p>"Enough," I replied, the voice soft and threatening. "Mind your own business." Thereupon I slipped Farlan my own shot glass, and that seemed to calm him down. "As for your question", I continued, addressed to Eld, "I cannot answer it. There's nothing I believe in anymore, it's as simple as that."</p><p>"What does that mean?"</p><p>"I don't have the gift of insight. All I know is that we live and die. A lot happens in between. It doesn't matter what you believe in, what you strive for, the worms will eventually eat you and that's the end of it."</p><p>"You don't sound very catholic to me," Gunther grinned from the side, cheeks full and red-hot. With a chuckle he pointed to a bottle in the corner of the table. "I found some after all," he said, and his eyes began to glow. "The cognac. Someone had scratched off the sign."</p><p>"You have a melancholy disposition," Farlan sighed, not referring to Gunther.</p><p>"Pessimistic," Eld agreed with him.</p><p>"No." I shook my head. "Pragmatic. He who expects nothing will not be disappointed."</p><p>"Pleasantly surprised at best," cried Gunther. With the lighter in my hand, I reached out for the cigarette box and turned it upside down. "It's empty," I said in a dull voice. Then everyone began to tap their clothes, looking for more.</p><p>"Don't bother." I got up, pushed my way past Eld and Gunther and approached the wardrobe where my jacket still hung. There I let my hand slide into its inside pocket, looking for the case, but all I could find was Petra's handkerchief from the night before. The intensity of sudden recognition drove the drunkenness out of my mind for a moment.</p><p>"Shit", it escaped me.</p><p>"What's wrong?" Farlan moved around in his chair.</p><p>"My case." Eyes wide with shock, I tapped the jacket off. "It's gone."</p><p>"Buy a new one," laughed Gunther.</p><p>"Shut up," I said to him. "It was my father's."</p><p>"Where did you last have it?" Farlan wanted to know.</p><p>"I don't know. Let me think."</p><p>"Weren't you still smoking when we went to the park?"</p><p>I nodded. "Yes." Afterwards I had put it in my trouser pocket.</p><p>"And after class?" Eld asked.</p><p>"I put it in my compartment in the atelier, I said. "It's probably still there." With one quick movement I took the jacket off the hook and slid in.</p><p>"Wait, wait," cried Farlan, who now threatened to slip off his chair. "Where are you going?"</p><p>"I'm going to the atelier to get it."</p><p>"Man, it's all locked and bolted up. Stay with us and get it tomorrow."</p><p>"No." I pulled a dark red scarf off the hook that I wore around my neck, and a black flat cap. "The masters are working late, it'll be fine." I could feel the others' critical looks on me. "If it's locked, I'll come back. It's that simple. Don't wet yourselves."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As soon as I had closed the door behind me, the cold of the night crept under my clothes with sharp fingers and made me shiver. I buried my hands in my jacket pockets and ran. Only now, along with the fresh air, I realized how drunk I really was.</p><p>About ten minutes later I reached the main building where, in spite the late hour, lights were still burning. It was mainly the workshops, in which at this time there was still a certain hustle and bustle; none of the ateliers were lit up.</p><p>I entered the hallway on the ground floor, climbed the oval staircase past Rodin's sculpture of a self-embracing girl and soon reached the first floor. Here, one atelier followed the next, white walls and meter-high, dark brown doors. The corridor itself was only dimly lit. Although, or perhaps because I thought I was alone, I felt as if the walls were screaming the sound of my steps back at me. Lips tightly pressed together, I walked my way, intent on putting one foot in front of the other. It was difficult for me to walk straight forward. The alcohol had gone to my head from walking in the cold.</p><p>I reached the door of the atelier, checked the handle and indeed: the room was not locked. It wouldn't take long, I thought, slipping in for a moment, taking what belonged to me, and then out into the night, back into the humid and cheerful circle of my apartment.</p><p>When I pushed it open, the door squeaked softly. Almost silently I slid in, pulled it shut right behind me, careful not to make a sound. A slight swaying grabbed my limbs, bare for a moment, then I had myself under control again. There was a lightness in me that seized me when I drank, a lightness that made me feel as if I was floating, even though I was no longer master of my limbs.</p><p>To my surprise, I did not find the room darkened. One of the side lamps was lit. Normally it was used to illuminate the model when the daylight was too weak, in dark winter evenings and on dull rainy days. The light was hardly bright enough to be seen from outside; someone must have had forgotten to turn it off.</p><p>I paid no further attention to it and steered quickly towards the shelf wall where I used to store my personal belongings. But in the middle of the room I suddenly stopped. An easel stood not far from me, not far from the place where I had been sitting before. On it: a drawing.</p><p>With a furrowed forehead I approached it, looked at the door, then at the shelf, but there was nobody there. It was only when I stopped in front of the easel that I noticed what exactly I saw before me. It was my sketch from the nude class before, and probably the most frivolous pose of the evening: Schmidt sunk back on a chair, one arm crossed behind his head, while the hand of the other rested between spread legs, covering the most outstanding thing.</p><p>I suspected Klee was behind this nocturnal arrangement. It happened from time to time that the masters would take out and study the drawings of their students again; after his exuberant reaction from before, it was not unlikely that he would want to take a closer look at the older and newer works from my hand. Why he left them behind afterwards, however, was not clear to me. There was no way Klee could still be in the house - he regularly met with Lyonel Feininger from the printers for dinner that evening.</p><p>I stretched out my hand to take the drawing from the easel, but paused halfway through. My eyes glided once more over the sketch, comparing Schmidt's image with the still fresh memory. As if in flight, the session had passed me by, and yet every movement, every pose of the architect had burned itself into my memory. I remembered the slight movements of the rib cage with every breath, the subtle beginnings of goose bumps that Schmidt occasionally got, but which he never let show, the scar on his forehead, the strands of muscle on his neck and forearms. There had been something rebellious in his gaze, even though it had not been meant for me, especially in that pose. Show me what you can do, it had said. Take what you need, but get it yourself. That was what I could read in his face.</p><p>My gaze touched the hand between Schmidt's legs, the flawless hand covered with smooth skin, so manicured and well-groomed that one only wanted to look at it, not let it work.</p><p>Before I knew what I was doing, my fingertips touched the drawing. With lips slightly open, I let them glide over it. The paper felt equally firm and soft, coarser than I remembered. The unevenness left a slight tingling sensation on the skin.</p><p>How would he feel like?, I thought for a moment and flinched back from the drawing, only to come closer to it all the more.</p><p>What one bends too much breaks, Schmidt had said, in that casual, almost carefree way that was often accompanied by a strong sense of self-confidence.</p><p>Was his skin cold?</p><p>Was it warm?</p><p>It seemed as firm and hard as marble, but was it really?</p><p>How would it feel if Schmidt's hands were to rest on my body?</p><p>A sigh escaped my throat. I leaned forward. My forehead touched the paper. Eyes half closed, I recalled his smell, that very mixture of musk, cinnamon and honey.</p><p>What would have happened if I had left my place and walked towards him?</p><p>My thoughts began to take on a life of their own, but instead of fighting it I let them wander. The rest of the students disappeared and the room was empty except for Schmidt and me. I stopped in front of him and Schmidt looked at me, our eyes met.</p><p>Then I reached out my hand, while Schmidt calmly watched my every move. I put it on his cheek and a sigh left Schmidt's throat, longing, as if he was just waiting for me to finally summon up the courage.</p><p>Then he reached for me, pulled me towards him, took my face in his hands, fingers covering my neck and clawing my hair before his lips found their way onto mine, kissing me, caressing me as if I was the only thing in the world he lived to touch.</p><p>I opened my eyes. My mind felt empty, but images raged in it, smells, tastes, desires and longings where language failed, had to fail. The urge was stronger than any word. The sound of my heart rushed in my ears. My breath was erratic. Something pulsed within me, within my loins, in a hot, pressing way, as if someone had poured liquid metal into my lap, a pulsation that made my trousers too tight and that I had known for so many years.</p><p>I should go, was the last clear thought I could grasp. But instead, I loosened my belt, as if by magic, as if in a rush, opened my trousers and reached in. I would give this place something of that avant-garde everyone was always talking about.</p><p>The absence of the restrictive fabric gave me a sigh of relief. I closed my eyes and embraced myself, hard and hot, touching with gentle pressure the most sensitive parts of which no one knew better than me where they lay.</p><p>With the remaining hand I clasped the easel and now my forehead sank against the picture, no longer interested in whether I would smudge the charcoal, while touching myself, with steady, ever faster movements. A stream of images passed through my mind's eye, they flowed into each other, blurred, forming a colourful whirlpool of wordless desire and fierce interlocking. My quiet, deep breaths rushed in my ears. I thought of Schmidt's eyes, piercing and blue, wishing my fingers were his lips, and the thought alone was already too much. A sound escaped my throat, my hips twitched forward. Boiling hot it shot over my hand and fingers, while I bit my lower lip to keep silence. Relieved, with a wildly beating heart, I sank forward, and suddenly I remembered the priest's words, the very sermon that had so quickly turned into admonishing restriction.</p><p>I held out like this for a few seconds, then I became aware of the semen, most of which my fingers had caught. The veil of intoxication, it lifted. What remained was clarity of mind and a slight elation that I had not felt for a long time.</p><p>With nervous hands I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket, looking for something to wipe myself clean with, and felt a piece of cloth that I took out.</p><p>It was the handkerchief that Petra had given me the night before. For a moment I looked at it with furrowed eyebrows, but it didn't help. It would be enough, I thought, and wiped my fingers on it; it was embroidered, probably by hand, but as long as I boiled it the same night and washed it, it would be fine.</p><p>Then the click of a lighter sounded behind me. At first I did not attach any importance to it, but suddenly every feeling left my body. What followed was the soft crackling of a burning cigarette, then the exhalation of inhaled smoke. I became hot and cold at the same time. I closed my eyes, while I begged inwardly that I had fallen victim to a sensory delusion.</p><p>"Do you think the Bauhaus will survive in Weimar?" someone said behind me. "I would like to, but I'm not sure."</p><p>My breath began to tremble. Hands, warm a moment ago, now felt cold and damp. My knees became soft. With all my self-control left, I inhaled and closed my pants. Then I turned around, slowly, inwardly tensed to the point of tearing. In one of the more remote corners, half-hidden in the shadow of the only sparsely lit room, someone was leaning against the worktable where Klee had been examining my drawings in the late afternoon. He was nobly dressed, but the way he wore his suit indicated that his evening was also drawing to a close. Black patent leather shoes shimmering in the matt glow of the lamps concealed his feet. His black dinner jacket was lying next to him on the table, the sleeves of the blossom-white shirt with stand-up collar had been rolled up. A cummerbund wrapped around his waist, the bow tie had long since been untied and hung loosely around his neck. At the beginning of the evening he must have combed his hair back with pomade, but in the meantime some strands had come loose and hung cheekily in his forehead. The previously lit cigarette burned quietly smoking between his fingers.</p><p>"Herr Schmidt," I whispered.</p><p>A smile flickered across the face of the other. His eyes were glowing in the semi-darkness. He didn't seem quite sober either, though less drunk than I was.</p><p>"What's your first name, Herr Ackermann?"</p><p>I hadn't expected that. "Levi", I struggled to answer.</p><p>Schmidt nodded. It was a slow, deliberate nod.</p><p>"Levi," he repeated, and the syllables left his lips only slowly, as if tasting every sound. "Short for Leviathan?"</p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>"Just Levi, then?"</p><p>"Yes. Just Levi."</p><p>Schmidt nodded again. He lowered his gaze for a moment, but then his eyes lay on me once more. "Are you Jewish?" he asked.</p><p>"No, I'm not."</p><p>"Are you Catholic?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>A soft laugh left his throat. It seemed friendly, almost carefree, like a child's. "Hebrew, isn't it?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Your name."</p><p>"Ah. Yes." I couldn't find the words. I stared hesitantly at Schmidt, and he stared back at me. "It means 'to be connected,'" I finally added.</p><p>"I see." And then the silence grew between us. I couldn't tell how long it lasted, for me it was an eternity. My face had to glow red, it felt so hot. "Erwin comes from the old German language, did you know that?"</p><p>"No", I answered.</p><p>"It means: friend of the army." Schmidt laughed again. Compared to before, however, he lacked cheerfulness. "A rather warlike-looking name, don't you think?"</p><p>"Yes," I muttered. "Very military."</p><p>"That's why my father chose it." Schmidt put the cigarette to his lips and took a deep breath. "Names can be a good clue to one's future." He snorted in amusement, but his eyes did not laugh. "However, only to the future desired by one's parents." Almost lost in thought, he looked at the cigarette between his fingers. "Your name means to be connected, you said?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"You are a lucky man."</p><p>I did not reply. If I'd been honest with myself, I'd never thought about it before. At that moment, I had other things on my mind. I scarcely had the nerve to look at Schmidt, so infinitely uncomfortable was the whole business. My gaze glanced at Schmidt's hand and for a split second the shame disappeared. A silver cigarette case rested between his fingers.</p><p>"Where did you get this?"</p><p>"This?" Schmidt looked at it as if he had forgotten its existence for a while. "I found it lying on the floor when I entered the room. Does it belong to you?"</p><p>I nodded again. I reached out my hand, and Schmidt gave it back to me.</p><p>"It's very beautiful," he said, never letting it out of his sight. "How did it come into your possession?"</p><p>"It was my father's."</p><p>"A gift?"</p><p>"No." With an eager, steady hand I opened the case, put a cigarette between my lips and felt for matches. I didn't have any.</p><p>"Would you...?" I began to say, and Schmidt understood immediately. Shortly afterwards, he pulled out a lighter and helped me out.</p><p>"He's not alive?" asked Schmidt.</p><p>"No. He fell at Verdun in 1917."</p><p>"My condolences."</p><p>"Thank you."</p><p>Schmidt's gaze shifted from the case back to me. So we smoked. In the form of thin clouds of fumes branching ever finer upwards, the cigarettes burned between our fingers until I couldn't stand it any longer.</p><p>"I should go", it escaped me.</p><p>"Certainly."</p><p>"My friends are waiting for me."</p><p>"I won't keep you."</p><p>"Night, Herr Schmidt."</p><p>"Good night."</p><p>Trembling inside, I turned away from him and headed for the door. I was only halfway there when Schmidt's voice came up behind me once more.</p><p>"You wanted to know why I didn't tell you my opinion of your sketch."</p><p>I stopped and turned around. "What?"</p><p>He was smiling. A certain melancholy danced in his eyes. "This afternoon, when you were waiting for me after class. You were going to ask me that, weren't you?"</p><p>I crossed my arms in front of my chest. "Maybe."</p><p>"Good."</p><p>"Well?"</p><p>"So what?"</p><p>"Why are you acting so mysterious?" Now I turned my fully at him. "Are you afraid of a student's scratched ego?"</p><p>"It's not that."</p><p>"What is it, then?"</p><p>"Are you an artist or a craftsman?"</p><p>"What has this to do with it?</p><p>"Please answer my question.</p><p>I clicked my tongue. It sounded harsh. I was in the mood for answers and a speedy return, not petty discussions about trivialities. "All right, yes. I'm an artist. Are you happy now?"</p><p>The smile on Schmidt's lips grew wider.</p><p>"What?", I growled.</p><p>"You are quite young, aren't you?" The blue eyes wandered watchfully over my face. "How old are you?"</p><p>"22."</p><p>"At that age one can still afford to be an artist." Schmidt put out his cigarette in the ashtray beside him. "But let me tell you this. Once an artist listens to the opinion of others, he is lost. You want to be an artist? Position yourself this way. Express the very impulses of your soul, regardless of the losses. Whoever submits to the taste of the masses is a craftsman. He creates products, not art. You're struggling with yourself now, aren't you?" The last sentence was a statement so simple that I clenched my hands in fists.</p><p>"They say I lack style," I replid.</p><p>"Who says so? The others?" Schmidt pointed. "Or yourself?"</p><p>I opened my mouth to answer, but Schmidt wouldn't let me speak.</p><p>"Everyone here is firmly convinced that their opinions are the right ones. In truth, they know nothing. It's uncomfortable, but you'll have to find your own way. Enjoy your artistry while you can." His smile faded. "For most people, it's just enough for the craft in the long run. I don't see why it should be any different with you. Don't get me wrong, your drawings are good, yes, but so are many others."</p><p>"I did not come here to be lectured by you," I hissed, overcome by a sudden boiling fury.</p><p>"No, you're really not", Schmidt laughed and drove the blush back onto my cheeks. "Klee said you were with Feininger in the printing workshop?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Forget this atelier. Concentrate on the workshop. Art is overrated. All this here", and once again he pointed to the space around him, "is mere play, nothing more."</p><p>"Man is only man where he plays," I said without thinking.</p><p>"You're quoting Schiller?" There was an air of appreciation in his voice.</p><p>"Yes. But where do you see yourself? You are an architect, aren't you?"</p><p>"Correct."</p><p>"Are you an artist? Or are you a craftsman?</p><p>"What do you think?</p><p>We looked at each other. I felt a growing urge to retreat, but I didn't give in to it. "You are a craftsman. No, not quite so much. You are a mere service provider." Little by little, my voice regained its firmness. Surprised, Schmidt raised his eyebrows. The smile disappeared.</p><p>"What makes you think so?"</p><p>"I think you'd walk over dead bodies to get to the top. You're successful, yes, you seem confident, even that. But I'm old enough to know that every success has its price. Only someone hungry for approval would be willing to pay it. You accuse me of being too dependent on other people's opinions, and that is exactly what you do for a living. No architect survives if he does not manage to sell a product to the client. That makes you a craftsman. No more, no less. Maybe even less."</p><p>His eyes narrowed. "You're using harsh words against me."</p><p>"Would you prefer I lied?"</p><p>"Success doesn't interest you?"</p><p>"Not really."</p><p>"Then why did you ask me what I thought of your drawing?"</p><p>A knot spread in the pit of my stomach. Unable to reply, I stared at Schmidt, my hands still clenched in fists. My lips were chapped, but not a syllable was escaping. Meanwhile, Schmidt glanced at the wristwatch, with the satisfied expression of a man who had won a victory for himself. "Didn't you say your friends were expecting you?" he asked, holding the dial up to me.</p><p>"Yes," I said. This time I checked if I had really taken the case with me. "Good night, Herr Schmidt."</p><p>"Good night," he replied, before continuing, in a softer voice: "Levi Ackermann."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next morning I woke up in my bed. The trail of shoes and clothes that lined the path from the door to my bed was, however, witness enough for the escalations of the previous evening.</p><p>Silently I rolled over to the side; only my shirt concealed my upper body, the blanket lay unused underneath me. Every movement caused tense muscles to groan, a hint of the twists and strains I must have undergone while asleep. I opened my eyes and my world began to totter, so I closed them again, for a moment only, until I had gathered enough strength to try again. Not far from the bed (just a mattress on a loose wooden frame), I found the bottle of brandy. It was empty. Humming, I sat up and immediately stopped again. Dizziness seized me, this time paired with nausea. I let myself sink back and pulled the blanket over my head. It was of no use.</p><p>Like a slow shower on a cold autumn morning, the images of the previous hours began to rain down on me. The drawing class. Farlan. Eld. Gunther. The schnapps. The forgotten case. The return to the atelier. The easel with the sketch. My hands-</p><p>"Oh, God, no," I moaned into the pillow.</p><p>I clawed my fingers into the sheets and my face began to glow. Only fragments of that scene returned to me, Schmidt, leaning against the worktable in evening dress, the cigarette between his fingers, the ensuing conversation, the excitement, the torment, the shame. How could I ever face that man again?</p><p>"Forgive me, Farlan," I murmured more to myself, rather than to him, "guess the job at his architecture firm is gone." At that moment, there was a knock at the door. I made an inarticulate sound, and it opened. Farlan's head pushed through the gap. His hair was fuzzy, his face pale. Shadows under his eyes measured the length of the caroused night. But apart from that, he looked lively.</p><p>"I was heating water", he said and grimaced his face. "If you want to wash. You should open a window, it smells like a mountain lion cage in here."</p><p>"Thanks."</p><p>I stayed lying down for a moment, then I crawled out of bed and fought my way back to my legs. A good wash, something to eat, a strong cup of tea and the world immediately would look different. Before that, I followed Farlan's advice and tore the windows open. Then I grabbed some fresh underwear and sneaked out.</p><p>It was a tiny tiled room that was accessible from the kitchen, more of a washroom than a bathroom, but still. There was a toilet and a washbasin with a mirror, but there was no shower or bathtub. Once a week we went to the bath house, most of the times on Saturdays, until then we had to help ourselves in other ways. I found the hot water in a bucket made of zinc. I brushed my teeth, grabbed a piece of soap and the sponge and underwent the daily cleaning routine. Now and then the memories pushed their way into my consciousness, then I scrubbed harder until my skin shone red; in the end I buried my head in the remaining water, but whatever I did, it would not help. The images of the night, they ate into my soul like pain into a freshly cut wound.</p><p>It was a strange conversation that had joined my one-handed endeavour. Probably Schmidt's attempt at discretion. How long had he had stayed there before? Probably since before my arrival, I thought. Only the bad light conditions, the hidden position, and my drunkenness had made me overlook him. Schmidt might as well have said something, instead of standing there in silence and watching, I thought, and again the heat shot up my cheeks.</p><p>Then there was a knock at the door.</p><p>"Do you want tea?" cried Farlan from the other side.</p><p>"Yes." The footsteps receded and I collapsed. What a disaster, I thought. Luckily, Klee spoke of a temporary stay. However, it would last the whole semester.</p><p>Shaking my head, I got into a fresh pair of underpants, pulled a white undershirt over my head and reached for the towel. Drying my hair with it, I stepped outside into the kitchen. Still the chaos of the nightly feast reigned. Bottles lay scattered about the table, framed by shot glasses. I discovered crumbled boards and knives smeared with butter, probably the last witnesses of the nightly drunken hunger.</p><p>In this chaos, steaming and called, I saw two cups of black tea. The door to Farlan's room was open. A glance inside showed him teetering on the floor. He was still wearing the clothes from the day before.</p><p>"Say, Farlan," I started and grabbed some shot glasses which I carried to the sink.The apartment itself might be sparsely furnished, but there had been enough money for running water and a coal stove when the house was built. "Have you slept at all?"</p><p>"No." He held the camera in his hand as if he were checking something. "Had a creative boost. Couldn't." He put the camera down and stood up. It was only now that I noticed the chaos in his room. There were books all over the place, old photographs, clothes. I frowned. He was less concerned with cleanliness than I was, that was true, but this level of untidiness was unusual even for him.</p><p>Farlan pushed his way past me out into the kitchen, grabbed his cup and handed me the second one. "Do you have plans for the day?" he wanted to know and brought it to his lips. I did the same.</p><p>"I have to see Feininger."</p><p>"About the graduation project? Are you still without topic?"</p><p>"No. I shrugged my shoulders. "How am I gonna have any creativity left for me if you're hogging the whole thing?" I whispered over the rim of my cup and Farlan laughed.</p><p>"It doesn't work like that," he shouted and patted me on the shoulder so hard with his flat hand that I almost scalded myself on the tea. "But you're not wrong." He raised his index finger and winked at me. "My head is bursting with ideas for the perfect end to my studies."</p><p>"What are you going to do?"</p><p>He laughed as if he was counting on this very question. "My dear Levi, of course it is a secret. I don't want to risk anyone challenging the idea. Fear not, for I shall begin the groundwork today. It won't be long before I can let you in on it."</p><p>"Has it been approved?"</p><p>"Has what been approved?"</p><p>"Your grandiose plan. Have you conferred with Kandinsky?"</p><p>"No way." Farlan raised his hand and made a move like he was scaring away flies. "Well, the meetings are just pro forma anyway. It'll be all right." The grin on his lips widened. "Once they see what I've come up with, their mouths will open. The Bauhaus will never be the same again."</p><p>"But you are with the muralists," I noticed with a nod of my head. "What's the camera for?"</p><p>"You'll see."</p><p>"If you say so." I let my gaze wander out the window. The sun was shining. There was not a cloud in the sky. "Are you sure?"</p><p>"I'm positive." Farlan took a big sip of tea and I wondered how he managed without getting burned. "But tell me, Levi..."</p><p>"Huh?"</p><p>"What happened yesterday in the atelier?" Farlan placed the cup on a spice rack and started to clear the table. "You looked as if you saw a ghost."</p><p>I felt a pulling sensation inside me. With the cup tightly clasped, I turned to the window so Farlan couldn't see my face.</p><p>"The doorman had already locked the door when I wanted to leave," I lied, "I had to get out through one of the windows."</p><p>"You're kidding." Farlan laughed, louder than I expected. "I thought they'd caught you in the act or something. Not that it's a problem. Oh, by the way..." He ran up to his room and started digging. Finally, under a pile of shirts, he fished out a small book that he put in my hand. "Eld left this here this morning. I don't know how he got out of bed so early, the man just doesn't get drunk."</p><p>I turned it around. It was a grey cloth binding. On the front, on a black background, were two words: BENN. MORGUE.</p><p>"Why?" I asked. Farlan shrugged his shoulders.</p><p>"I don't know. The guy's from the countryside. They learn how to drink early."</p><p>"That's not what I mean." My voice took on a sour tone. "Why the book?"</p><p>"What do I know?" Farlan grabbed the boards and knives and carried them to the sink. "Said something about it changing his life or some shit. Probably wants to give you one thing to believe in. Whether Benn is the right choice, I don't know." He laughed again, then finally shut up. Only the clatter of the dishes now filled the room.</p><p>Once more I let my eyes slide over the cover. MORGUE. Wasn't that another another word for mortuary? I put the cup on the table and opened the book, skimming the words, but only fleetingly. Short, formless poems were printed there, mostly without rhyme, concise and unadorned, very contemporary. I would read them, but not today. Today I had other things to take care of.</p><p>On the way back to my room I passed Farlan. "Get some rest, will you?", I said and put a hand on his shoulder, but Farlan didn't seem to notice it, so I left him in alone.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The conversation with Lyonel Feininger, a serious-looking man with thinning hair, narrow features and glasses, went like the others.</p><p>"What are your ideas for your graduation thesis?" Feininger asked.</p><p>That I didn't have any, as I still lacked a clear concept, I returned.</p><p>"Don't you think there are any ideas at all?"</p><p>"No," I replied, "everything I begin seems doomed to failure from the start."</p><p>Feininger gave me some suggestions for possible projects (they all concerned sacred buildings in the immediate neighbourhood), but none of them appealed to me, and where my heart was not on the job, I could not be involved.</p><p>So I refused and Feininger pulled the usual face, half doubting, half regretting. He hesitated for a moment, then he addressed me once more.</p><p>"Have you ever thought about whether the Bauhaus is the right school for you?" he asked.</p><p>"You must tell me," I replied, "after all, I was admitted to the advanced courses at the time."</p><p>I understood I was working a lot, mostly part time, yet still, said Feininger, even outside of my studies and despite the scholarship. "I wonder if there wouldn't be possibilities to step back a bit?"</p><p>I answered in the negative. I was dependent on the money.</p><p>Thereupon Feininger offered me a whiskey, but since I still felt the previous night in my bones, I refused.</p><p>"Did you hear about the theatre?", Feininger then asked, and I denied again. People would protest, against the programme and the content, but in truth, as everyone knew, all this was directed against the Bauhaus once more. The times were not easy, especially for us, who thought outside the boxes.</p><p>Feininger sought my gaze, heavy with meaning, almost warning. The protests about the theater were just the beginning, he felt.</p><p>Afterwards he asked me to consider his proposed themes once again, to sleep it all over and then get back to him. The inspiration always came when one least expected it, he said and sent me out.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rest of the week went by quietly. I continued to look for ideas, wrote down what I could think of (printed portraits, buildings, reinterpretation of common political posters), but nothing wanted to please me. Everything seemed to lack the spark, and inspiration stayed away. Every now and then I thought of my trip to the atelier, of Schmidt, his quiet manner and the curiosity that was inherent in his gaze when he addressed me.</p><p>If the conversation about our names seemed surreal and inappropriate at the beginning, this impression had changed in the meantime. Schmidt had seen the meaning of his name as an indication of the future his parents wanted for him. Again and again I let these words go through my mind. I, the connected one. Erwin Schmidt, friend of the army. Gradually I began to wonder from which family he might have been from. He was older, but by how many years? Had they chosen his name arbitrarily? The way Schmidt had talked about it indicated the opposite. And yet he was an architect. It had not escaped me, the hint of sadness that had crept into his gaze during those words. My body had been electrified, and yet I had not overlooked it.</p><p>Why had he come to the atelier at this late hour? Judging by his clothes he must have spent the evening in company. And yet-</p><p>I realized that it was not Klee, but Schmidt himself who must have set up the easel. He, who hadn't paid any attention to me that evening, had returned to the atelier for this very reason?</p><p>Bastard, I thought and the hint of a smile played around the corners of my mouth. So he had liked the sketch after all.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After the service on Sunday I walked to the park. The weather was unstable. Clouds rushed over it with almost unbelievable speed, but apart from that the sun was shining. The temperatures were warm, but the wind made me shiver. Birds were sitting in the trees singing. I could hardly remember the words of the pastor, so many other things had gone through my mind during the sermon. But the intention was what counted and it was better to fail in trying than to give up.</p><p>After a while I reached a bench with a view of the poet's summer house. There I sat down, reached into the breast pocket of my jacket and took out the little book that Eld had left for me. Once more I looked at the cover, the simple, somehow oppressive presentation, then I opened the book and immersed myself in it.</p><p>Eld was right. I had never encountered a word arrangement of this nature before. The author's medical background was obvious. Sharp as a scalpel the individual phrases cut into my mind. Aesthetics met disgust, natural motifs, flowers, trees, water met the transience of all being, the abysses of human existence, rubbish, excrements, pus, death and infirmity. There was nothing beautiful about these poems and yet they were beautiful.</p><p>The wind was refreshing. The clouds in the sky became thicker. All that escaped me. Gottfried Benn held me hostage and refused to let me go.</p><p>Then something dark pushed itself into my field of vision and tore me out of the festering fever dreams of this strange doctor. I looked up, looked at the sky, but there was only black fabric, an umbrella, someone held it over my head. The crackling sound of drops falling on it filled the air. It had begun to rain and I had not even noticed it.</p><p>"Herr Ackermann."</p><p>I looked to my right, to the owner of the umbrella. I held my breath.</p><p>"Herr Schmidt."</p><p>This one smiled at me kindly. He was wearing business clothes, a grey suit with a dark blue tie, brown shoes and a grey coat. In contrast to our last two encounters, his hair was neatly parted and combed. A folder was stuck under his arm.</p><p>"What brings you here?", I asked.</p><p>"An appointment in town." Schmidt pointed roughly behind him with his hand. "There's a larger project that Gropius has asked me to help him with."</p><p>"I'm sure that's why you came to Weimar."</p><p>"Among other things, yes."</p><p>"What sort of project is it?"</p><p>Schmidt suggested a smile. "You must excuse me," he said, "but the whole matter is still under wraps."</p><p>"Have you just come from his office?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>I turned my eyes away and let him glide across the landscape. Like spider webs, the raindrops stretched like thin, shiny threads across everything; the leaves of the trees swayed gently in the wind.</p><p>"You didn't attend nude class yesterday," Schmidt suddenly said.</p><p>"I had to work." Sorting files in the local archives. Storing vegetables in the nearby grocery store. Things like that.</p><p>"Klee told me you were a scholarship student," Schmidt asked.</p><p>"I am." I took out the cigarette case. "But my family needs the money."</p><p>Schmidt nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at my cigarette from time to time, until he finally took out his own pack and started smoking, too. "Where are you from?"</p><p>"Wuppertal."</p><p>"The Aerial Tramway."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"They say it rains a lot there."</p><p>I laughed. "The children there are born with umbrellas in their hands."</p><p>"Is that what they say?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>Schmidt sat down beside me, smiling softly. By now the bench was damp with rain, but he didn't seem to mind.</p><p>"The beauty of ugliness," he said after a brief pause.</p><p>"Excuse me?"</p><p>With a fleeting gesture, Schmidt pointed to the book in my hands. "Gottfried Benn, isn't it?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"Do you like the book?"</p><p>"It's not mine." Thoughtfully, I turned the cover back and forth in my hands. "A friend gave it to me. Too many guts for my taste, but the guy has a real way with words, so I don't want to judge him too harshly."</p><p>Schmidt then quoted some verses that sounded familiar. I opened the booklet again and skimmed the lines until I found the poem I was looking for. "Beautiful Youth," I said and Schmidt nodded. It was about a female drowned corpse, in whose rib cage rat cubs were found during the autopsy. They had spent their youth in her like in paradise, hence the title, living from what her corpse had to offer. They were all drowned, their squeaking highlighted by the lyrical subject.</p><p>"It's my favorite poem," said Schmidt.</p><p>I raised my eyebrows. "Why?"</p><p>"It reminds me of Ophelia."</p><p>"Ophelia?"</p><p>"She is Hamlet's lover. Do you know Shakespeare? There even is a statue of him not far from here." He pointed to a place beyond the river, hidden by trees.</p><p>"Not really."</p><p>"She betrays him, loses his trust, and eventually her father, since the latter is murdered by Hamlet. She loses her mind and drowns herself in a river."</p><p>"Horrible."</p><p>"It's a very popular motif. If you ever see a painting of a young woman floating in water, it's probably a reference to it."</p><p>"Do you know much about art history, Herr Schmidt?"</p><p>"Not really. I asked him once if it was a conscious reference, but he never answered me."</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>"Benn."</p><p>"You know him?"</p><p>"Well, hardly."</p><p>With one brisk movement, I shut the book and put it in my pocket. Eyes narrowed, I studied Schmidt closely. "You're making fun of me."</p><p>"I'm not." For a moment, a grin flitted across Schmidt's face. "I was one of his patients. In Antwerp, 1914."</p><p>"You served during the war?"</p><p>"For one year." He laughed. "Right after graduation."</p><p>"Voluntarily?"</p><p>"Like the rest of the class."</p><p>"I see." I didn't understand, though. "For just one year? Were you wounded?"</p><p>Our eyes met, barely for a split second, then Schmidt turned away and looked into the distance. "Who knows," he whispered, his voice just a breath, "that was a long time ago."</p><p>And then silence fell between us. Together we watched the rain that covered the park, protected by his umbrella. Sometimes I would glance at him out of the corner of my eyes, and he would seem lost in thought, his face supported in his hand, while the cigarette burned between the fingers of the other. Not everything seemed to have been said between them, a certain tension would not give way, despite the silence. Finally Schmidt took a deep breath and straightened up.</p><p>"Because of the unfortunate incident," he began, and my heart stopped beating for a moment, "you may not be concerned about my discretion."</p><p>He looked at me. I looked back, outwardly calm. As if a switch had been flipped inside me, the shame suddenly disappeared, gave way to suspicion, then mistrust, finally anger.</p><p>"You are a self-righteous bastard," I snapped at him and the friendliness in Schmidt's face gave way to honest astonishment. "Discretion would suit not only me, but you as well."</p><p>"Please?"</p><p>"It was you who set up the easel, right?" I dropped my cigarette on the floor and slipped the booklet into the inside pocket of my jacket. Suspiciously, I glanced at Schmidt. One look was all it took, and I knew I was right. "You entered the room before me, for whatever reason you sneak into the main building at night to look at pictures." I shook my head, took out the case once more and a cigarette, then, suddenly, my heart was pounding. "Why didn't you say anything? You could have stopped me. Instead, you just shut up and watch." I slipped a new cigarette between my lips and lit it under cover of my hand. "Seriously, what is wrong with you?"</p><p>"Me?" He laughed. "What's wrong with me, you ask?"</p><p>"Did they drop you from the changing table when you were a kid? Or is this from when you were in the Army? Is that how it was done in your company?"</p><p>Smoking, I looked in Schmidt's direction and froze, because his gaze cut off my breath. Burning with rage, his look pierced me. All color had disappeared from the knuckles of his fingers still clasping the umbrella. Then a tremor gripped Schmidt's limbs, barely noticeable, but I did not miss it. Something about him scared me. There was blood on his hands, I could suddenly see it, he had been a soldier and he had been killing for a living, years ago.</p><p>"You never served in the military," he growled, as if he had to pull himself together, "so keep your mouth shut." He swallowed, and his Adam's apple wandered up and down behind his shirt collar. As quickly as it had come, his anger faded. What remained was the same strangely melancholy expression that I could see that night, and which made me feel guilty now that Schmidt was so outspoken. "I would have approached you if you had not surprised me so much... By the time I realized what you were up to, it was too late. I had to embarrass you anyway, I at least wanted to let you have this little pleasure. The blame lies equally with you, youth or no youth."</p><p>"I know!" With a sound of frustration I ran my fingers through my hair. "Dear God. I feel like the ultimate idiot."</p><p>"It wasn't a well thought-out operation." A laugh rang out next to me, unexpectedly cheerful and relaxed. "I take it as a compliment, despite everything."</p><p>"What?</p><p>"Well, it was my drawing, wasn't it?</p><p>Shaking my head, I closed my eyes, the cigarette between my lips, the aroma of smoke on my tongue as I let it gently draw. My hand, now clenched in a fist, twitched, and for a moment I was unsure whether I would not turn around and ram it into Schmidt's face.</p><p>"Spare me your vanities," I replied instead, but Schmidt's grin, smug and not without pride, spoke for itself.</p><p>The rain subsided and the clouds cleared. A rainbow appeared over the park, bright, colourful and of undreamt of strong colours. After a while I noticed that Schmidt was looking at me from the side. A smile adorned the corners of his mouth.</p><p>"What is it?" I still sounded irritated.</p><p>"Have you any plans for Saturday, Herr Ackermann?"</p><p>I hadn't expected such a question. Therefore I failed to reply.</p><p>"I have theatre tickets for Saturday," Schmidt continued, "but my companion is indisposed. I'm not up to going alone, but I don't want to let the tickets go to waste either." A smile. "Will you come with me?"</p><p>"What's on?"</p><p>Schmidt shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I don't know," he said, closing his umbrella. "Think of it as compensation for my own shortcomings." His face looked cheerful, marked by sincere curiosity.</p><p>"Very well," I heard myself say, and in my ears it sounded as if from far away. "I'll accompany you."</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The following day I skipped lectures and classes. Instead, I went for a walk. Only after tea, in the late afternoon, I made my way to the main building. There were a few things I wanted to try out in the print shop, and I hoped that they would give me the brilliant idea for my graduation piece.</p><p>If the sun was still shining in the morning, it began to drizzle, as soon as I had left the house. I ignored it. Calmly I walked my way, without hurry, even the workshop only casually in mind.</p><p>That's how I passed the theater. There, on the square, not far from the statue of the famous poet couple - some years ago we had painted it scarlet red in a cloak-and-dagger action - I noticed a crowd of people. Most of them were men, older than me, in brown shirts and dark brown trousers. Defying the rain, they handed out leaflets, entangled passers-by in conversation, and now and then raised their voices, apparently angry. At one table they had attached a banner on which was written in large black letters: "Down with degenerate art".</p><p>I stood still, my hands buried in my trouser pockets, my gaze calmly directed at the small gathering of people. It did not take long before they noticed me. So we looked at each other in mutual suspicion. It was easy for me to see that I did not belong to them, with my careless posture, my hands buried in my trouser pockets, my eyes fixed on them without expression. One of the brown shirts, the youngest, stood up and made preparations to march towards me, but one of his comrades, a thin fellow with narrow features and a chin beard, grabbed him by the shoulder and held him back.</p><p>"Hey, you there!" cried the younger one, a tall fellow with a fiery look and frizzy red hair.</p><p>"You mean me?", I replied calmly.</p><p>"What are you staring at?"</p><p>"I'm not staring."</p><p>"Of course you stare!"</p><p>I looked at him in silence.</p><p>"Hey!"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Are you from the Bauhaus? I can spot those pigs a hundred yards downwind."</p><p>"If you could, you wouldn't have to ask." I laughed. "Besides, it's none of your bloody business." With those words, I turned my back. Out of the corner of my eye, I could still see the redhead breaking away and chasing me.</p><p>"Just you wait," he cried, "when we're through with you, you won't be laughing so hard." But before he could reach me, he was seized and overpowered by his own men. "Bolshevik bastards," he hissed and spat on the floor. I passed the theater and the rain came down. Increasingly thick drops began to fall on my face. When I reached the workshop, my shirt was transparent, dripping wet and stuck to my body. The same was true for my hair; heavy, wet strands kept slipping into my forehead. With my fingers I tried to make myself their master, but in vain. Ever since they had their own will, a will that could only be tamed by pomade. I sighed. To work in this state would be very tiring. Wouldn't it be better to go back to my apartment and change? But the detour would cost me too much time. It was already later than planned; the spontaneous meeting with the brown shirts at the theatre did the rest. If I turned back now, I ran the risk of meeting them again and who knew if I would be as lucky as before.</p><p>So I made my way to the main building. Ten minutes later I found myself in the dry. The high entrance doors had not yet closed behind me and I was already shivering.</p><p>Why of all places had they been standing at the theatre, I thought, over and over again. The plays that had been given there for some years were unusual, yes, modern too, but by no means that scandalous. I thought about Schmidt's invitation. What would they play that Saturday? Of course I could have asked, but I preferred to be surprised. The tickets had long since been bought and paid for, so what did I have to lose?</p><p>"What are you standing there like a freshly watered poodle?" it sounded next to me, laughing. I drove around. Isabelle waved at me from the bottom of the stairs, a broad grin on her lips. She was wearing knickerbockers and a white shirt and tie. Her stockings had a knitted three-colour pattern.</p><p>"A poodle?" I wondered.</p><p>"You look like they just pulled you out of the river."</p><p>"I wanted to carve printing plates," I replied in a dull voice. "Actually."</p><p>"But not like this, right?" She approached me before reaching out and grabbing one of my soaked, dripping locks of hair. "You'll catch pneumonia dressed like that, nothing more. Come along." She let go of me and turned to leave. "I had just put on some tea anyway."</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A short time later we entered the weaving mill. It was a spacious room of rectangular shape, filled with work tables and looms. In an elongated shelf, which covered the opposite side of the windows, there was a seemingly endless collection of yarns, started, finished or abandoned projects, tools, beads, buttons and other bits and pieces. The air was warm. It smelled sweetish, an aroma often found in elementary schools and reminiscent of childhood, interspersed here and there with notes of female perfume. It seemed cosy, I thought, in contrast to the solvent-smelling print shop.</p><p>"I'm glad you're here," said Isabelle without looking at me and went over to a stove that was in the corner of the room. She took down a kettle of water placed there, a tin and a pot from the windowsill and began to prepare the tea. "I would like your independent opinion."</p><p>"What for?"</p><p>"About my current project.</p><p>"What are you working on?</p><p>"A carpet." Of course. She put some spoons of tea leaves in the pot and poured water afterwards. "You'll see."</p><p>"It's quiet here." I let my eyes wander. Except for us two, we were alone.</p><p>"All gone now, I guess." She put the kettle down and took some cups from a shelf. "Take off your shirt."</p><p>"Excuse me?"</p><p>"Your shirt." She pointed at the stove and I understood. I hesitated, though, and she started to laugh. "Oh, Levi," she rebuked me with a big grin. Then, shaking her head, she poured me a cup and went over to another shelf from which she pulled out a blanket. "I promise I won't look at you." She handed me the blanket and winked. "I have Farlan. "</p><p>"I know," I murmured and pulled my shirt over my head. Then I hung it over the stove. Only now did I realize how cold it really was; my hands showed a blue sheen and goose bumps ran down my arms. I put the blanket around my shoulders, grabbed the cup and sat down near the stove. The yarn wrapped itself warm and softly around my body. The pattern was plain and simple, full of straight lines, but of timeless beauty, the colours strong and contradictory.</p><p>"Did you make this?" I asked.</p><p>"Yes." Isabelle sipped tea and sat down on one of the work tables. "Present for a lady friend. We fell apart before I could finish it, so it stayed."</p><p>"You were close?"</p><p>"I guess so." She rolled her eyes and then lowered her gaze. "This was before Farlan. Eventually, someone she liked better than me came along, simple as that."</p><p>"Good for me."</p><p>"Good for you, yeah."</p><p>We smiled at each other across the room. Finally, Isabelle jumped up from the table and told me to follow her. "I want to show you something," she said, pulling another piece of weave from a shelf and spreading it on the nearest table. Clutching the cup with both hands, I followed her.</p><p>"A carpet?", I asked and she nodded. The yarn was flesh-colored. Various shades of rose and pink were draped across the table in a fine weave. The shapes were simple and repetitive, circular shadows wherever the eye looked.</p><p>"Finished it today," said Isabelle, not without pride.</p><p>"What's this?"</p><p>"A commission for the Women's Center in Berlin."</p><p>With my forehead furrowed, I let my fingertips slide across the neatly crafted surface, not without suspicion, until, suddenly, my hand snapped back. "My God, Isabelle," I whispered, turning my head towards her, "are those breasts?"</p><p>"Do you like them?" Laughing, she tapped me on the shoulder, like a drinking companion with whom one gazes at a girl together.</p><p>"Guess they'll do the trick," I murmured. But not for my room, I thought and pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. Shaking my head, I went back to the stove and sat down. Isabelle did the same, but sat down on the worktable again. Her legs dangled back and forth. There was something playful about it, I thought, and I couldn't help but smile an absent-minded smile.</p><p>"We do live in a phallocentric society," she suddenly said and cought me off guard.</p><p>"A what?" I stood up in surprise.</p><p>"A phallocentric society." When I didn't reply, Isabelle tilted her head. "Dicks, Levi. It's all about dicks, willies, cocks, whatever you may call them. Have you never read Freud?"</p><p>"Yes, I have," I said, making a face, "...but I don't see what you're getting at."</p><p>"Look. A skyscraper, for example. Its shape is phallic. Isn't it?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"A train that goes into a tunnel. It's phallic too, don't you agree?"</p><p>"Isabelle, what the hell?"</p><p>"Just imagine it. It's entering the tunnel, right? Or a key, a long key that goes into a lock. There's something phallic about it too. You could say that the shape of all these objects is phallic. This applies to all long, hard objects and buildings. Freud speaks in this context of the human obsession with penises. And to women, he attributes penis envy."</p><p>"Well, are you?" I asked, sounding strangely unimpressed.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Jealous of my penis?"</p><p>"No, I'm not jealous of your penis." Isabelle laughed. "Just turn it around. What would you call the tunnel, or the lock?"</p><p>"Tunnel," I replied in a dry voice. "And lock."</p><p>"Levi!" She slammed her cup on the table, so hard that the tea spilled over the edges. "You know exactly what I mean."</p><p>"No, I don't know what you mean." Irritation grew inside me and spread to my chest. "Get to the point. What's this all about?"</p><p>"There is no linguistic equivalent to phallic."</p><p>"There's not?" Admittedly, this statement stunned me.</p><p>She raised her hands. "Tell me one example."</p><p>"Hmm." I crossed my arms over her chest. We held our silence while I tried to do what she asked. "Vulvish?" My voice sounded uncertain. "Vaginally?"</p><p>"Vulvish?" Isabelle raised her eyebrows. "Vaginally? Honestly?"</p><p>I shrugged my shoulders. "Cunty, perhaps."</p><p>"God, you can't be serious."</p><p>"You brought it up."</p><p>"Yeah, but--"</p><p>"Why the hell are we talking about this?"</p><p>"Because all this is just an indication that women are worth less than men in this society. If we were equal, language would reflect us equally. But that is not the case."</p><p>"There's no need for a linguistic comparison to prove that, Isabelle."</p><p>"If men and women were equal, it would also be reflected in the language. Language creates realities, Levi. How can we expect men and women to coexist, so to speak, if language fails to put this idea into people's heads? Everything new that we create here is immediately shattered by the restrictive structures of our speech!"</p><p>I opened my mouth, but before I could say anything back, she ran her mouth over mine. She turned into a monologue that covered all sorts of points about women's issues, and I let her go, even though I did not understand everything she said. She spoke about how women had always been kept as slaves of men since the beginning of private property, how these circumstances had only recently begun to change and that there was still a long way to go before man and woman could live side by side on equal terms.</p><p>"It would be best if the sex no longer existed at all. I mean - just look at all the havoc that this is causing. The faster we get rid of it, the better," she concluded emphatically. "The fewer categories man is subjected to, the more freely he can live."</p><p>I looked carefully at her appearance, her narrow shoulders, the short hair, the shirt, the tie, the soft features of her face. "Where do you see yourself in all this?"</p><p>She shrugged her shoulders. "In the middle, I guess."</p><p>Then the door opened with a gentle clack. It was Petra. With a bell-shaped hat on her head, her body hidden by a beige linen dress, she waved to Isabelle, but stopped as if rooted to the floor when she saw me sitting half-naked in the chair.</p><p>"Shall I come back later?" she asked and her cheeks turned red.</p><p>"No!" Isabelle laughed. "He came in the rain, that's all. Is your shirt dry yet?"</p><p>"Dry enough." I took it off the stove and slipped in. It was still pretty clammy, but it should do.</p><p>"I'm looking for Oulo," Petra said meanwhile, "have you seen him?"</p><p>"No," Isabelle returned.</p><p>"That bastard." Petra swore in Swedish, but it sounded soft, almost friendly. "He promised to bring the posters, and now he's nowhere to be found."</p><p>"What posters?" I wanted to know.</p><p>"For the assembly," Isabelle replied...</p><p>"What assembly?" I closed the last button of my shirt before I stuffed it in the waistband of my trousers. "What for?"</p><p>"Have you been living under a rock for the past few months?" Isabelle smiled at me, with Petra laughing in the background. "To organize the Midsummer Festival? Have you forgotten?" She turned to Petra.</p><p>I looked at them with my mouth slightly open. Of course. I remembered briefly that Farlan had mentioned it to me in February. Like every year, I had not given importance to any of this then. I was not a big fan of festivities.</p><p>"Are you coming?" Petra asked. "Most of us are already there."</p><p>"I have to go to the printer's," I replied.</p><p>"Oh, printing, shminting." Isabelle waved and took the teacup from my hands. "Go later, the print shop will not magically disappear."</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was not long before I found myself in the student meeting room, where I was welcomed by Farlan, Gunther and Eld. The atmosphere was cheerful, the tasks assigned quickly, but the organization of the details dragged it out, as so often. Farlan, who was sitting next to me on a chair, robbed me of my last nerve after a while. It was as if he couldn't sit still, he kept slipping back and forth, changing his pose, getting up, sitting down again. He was like a strange sack of fleas, somehow on the move, but on the other hand not exactly that. At the end of the agreed upon time, there were still some points outstanding; they were handed over to the responsible working groups.</p><p>"It's not so bad", said Farlan as he left the room, his hands casually pushed into his trouser pockets. "Let's just meet at my place on Saturday and we'll sort out the rest." He nodded at Gunther and Eld, who returned the nod. The four of us were responsible for designing and printing the posters after Oulo's designs were rejected amidst the cries of those present. Farlan, as a muralist, was lucky. Even Gunther and Eld, who worked in the sculpture and theatre workshop, would only be of limited help. Most of the work would stick to me, as usual. In two weeks at the latest the posters should be all over town.</p><p>"Saturday?" I was frowning. "I can't make it then."</p><p>"What do you mean, you can't?" Farlan's voice went all over the place. He grabbed me by the upper arm and forced me to stop. His fingers were digging into my flesh.</p><p>"I have plans." I made a face. "Farlan, you're hurting me."</p><p>"You?" He started laughing and I couldn't help but notice that Gunther and Eld were smiling softly too. "You of all people?"</p><p>"Yes, of all people." I sounded increasingly annoyed. "Got tickets for the theater."</p><p>"By yourself?</p><p>"No." Now I wrestled from Farlan's grip and rubbed my upper arm. "Schmidt. He invited me."</p><p>For a moment, there was silence. Farlan's eyes widened. Gunther and Eld raised their eyebrows in appreciation.</p><p>"Boy, that's the way to do it," Farlan suddenly thumped. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me out of the crowd of the disbanding gathering into a quieter corner. "That's exactly what I had imagined for you," he whispered. "I am so proud."</p><p>"Are you?", I replied suspiciously.</p><p>"Yes. Did he ask you?"</p><p>"I'm telling you."</p><p>"When?"</p><p>"The other day in the park."</p><p>"You were in the park together?!"</p><p>"Farlan." I moaned. "After the service I sat on a bench there to read. Our paths crossed. He said he knew Gottfried Benn and invited me to the theatre."</p><p>"Gottfried Benn?" Farlan let me go. "You mean he read him?"</p><p>"No, he really knows him. Face to face, and all that."</p><p>"What? How?"</p><p>"From the war."</p><p>"Of course from the war." Farlan rubbed his chin with the flat of his hand and looked very pensive for a moment. His voice dropped, but he kept mumbling to himself. For some days now, clear shadows had appeared under his eyes. The skin looked pale, dark veins shimmered through.</p><p>"Tell me, Farlan," I began.</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"Have you slept at all yet? You look like you've had a sleepless night - again."</p><p>Our eyes met, but I soon understood that my words did not reach him. Instead, Farlan turned and raised his hand.</p><p>"Hey, Eld!" he shouted through the hall and waved him and Gunther towards us with vehement gestures. "Schmidt knows Gottfried Benn, can you imagine?"</p><p>"You mean he read him?"</p><p>"No! Face to face, and all! From the war!" With these words, he left me standing and ran towards them. I looked at them in silence.</p><p>"He's quite a forceful lad, this Farlan," a woman said next to me. I turned around and smiled.</p><p>"Petra."</p><p>"Are you still going to the printer's?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"Mind if I join you?"</p><p>"Aren't you with the weavers?"</p><p>"And you with the printers? And I'm in the metal workshop, remember? Not all women are in weaving." She put her hands on her hips. "Besides, did that stop you from visiting Isabelle today?" It sounded brash, almost defiant. "The workshops are a bit too separate, don't you think?"</p><p>"That's how humans are." I shrugged my shoulders. "People separate themselves from each other. They like to sort themselves into their neat little boxes."</p><p>She lowered her eyes and folded her hands. "I would give a lot to see in detail how you work," she said in a lowered voice.</p><p>I looked at her for a moment. The red-blond hair played around her face, her lips, full and rosy, stood open a little bit. She was slim, almost petite, despite her energetic nature. Suddenly I wanted to touch her, this milk-white skin, just to know if she felt as soft as she looked.</p><p>"Come with me," I said then, turning away, "I'll show you the print shop."</p>
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<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Here we are," I said, pointing into the room. The workshop was slightly larger than the weaving workshop, cut into squares, but separated into two areas by a divider. If the waving workshop seemed almost cosy, this atmosphere was missing here. It smelled of solvents and paint. Plastic sheets, knives, paper and projects begun by the students were stored in countless shelves, which lined the walls like a picture frame of his work of art.</p><p>In the meantime it was dawning. Increasingly, the sun bathed the place in an orange, slowly bluish evening light.</p><p>Petra detached herself from my side and began to roam around. Here and there she paused and let her fingertips run over everything that surrounded her: Work tables, printing presses - then she turned to me with a smile, which I responded with restraint. She is a beautiful person, I thought, with her slender figure and the translucent dress. There was something self-confident in her movements. She was not one of those women with whom a man could do as he pleased. It was not difficult for her to defend herself when the situation demanded it; her contact with Oulo in the pub was a clear sign.</p><p>We began to chat with each other. I asked her about her background. Although she mentioned Sweden as the country of her birth, all this was a wide field and complicated.</p><p>"Actually I'm from everywhere," she smiled and gave me a look, warm and sweet, like honey, but so insistent that I finally averted my gaze. "But here I am."</p><p>"Have you moved a lot?"</p><p>Her smile widened. "Perhaps," she said, shrugging her shoulders. She walked along one of the tables. Her fingertips gently stroked its surface.</p><p>"Why Germany?", I wanted to know and followed her without noticing. "Why Weimar?"</p><p>She laughed. "Why not?" she replied, no more, no less. Then she looked at me again, from below, her brown eyes big and demanding, full of emphasis. It was a look that left nothing to chance. I became hot and cold at the same time. I turned away, went over to one of the shelves and took out a plate of linoleum. It was mine. There were already some cuts and indentations in it, the façade of a building that I started a few days ago and which I had actually wanted to finish that evening. But when I looked at it now, the desire was gone. It was one linoleum cut among many, and not worth the material it was made of.</p><p>"What have you got there?" Before I knew what was happening, Petra's fingers had closed around the printing plate and taken it from my hands. Her eyes, lost in thought, wandered across the surface. "Are you working on this right now?"</p><p>"More or less," I said and took the record back. "I'll probably leave it like this."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>I shrugged my shoulders. "It's no good," I said, holding the plate at an angle in the light of the setting sun. "I was going to use it for my portfolio, but firstly it's full of flaws and secondly it lacks essence."</p><p>"The essence?"</p><p>"The essence that I was trying to get to with the picture." The soul, I thought, but didn't say it. "When I look at the cut, nothing happens. I don't even remember why I started it in the first place. It doesn't change anything, it belongs in the garbage. Art that doesn't make you feel, fails."</p><p>So we kept quiet. My self-doubts, companions for a long time, lay around my thoughts like the night over the world, washing me away. I let myself drift until they died and carried me to their shores. Once more I looked at the record.</p><p>"You wanted to see how the press works", I said casually and Petra, who had meanwhile started to stroll through the room again, flinched at the sound of my voice. Slowly she turned around.</p><p>"Indeed." A smile flitted across her face. She raised her hand and stroked a strand behind her ear. At that moment she stood straight in the light of the studio windows and her hair glowed red as fire. She didn't have a lot of bosom, and yet the shadows were clearly visible under the cream-coloured linen fabric. Her wrists looked as delicate as if they could be broken easily if they were not careful, and I was secretly surprised. Such a character in such a body, I thought, as she tilted her head to one side.</p><p>I pointed her to follow me, led her to one of the work tables and showed her my craft. I demonstrated how to scratch the motif into the linoleum with knives, how to then coat it with paint and apply it under high pressure to the surface to be printed. It was a technique not unlike Japanese woodblock printmaking. Linoleum, however, was easier to work with and was therefore my medium of choice.</p><p>"You can make the prints in several colors, but that's what separates the student from the master." I put the plate back on the shelf. "But that's just my opinion. Everyone will tell you something different, I guess."</p><p>"Can you do multicolour prints?" She handed me some knives, which I also put back on the shelf.</p><p>"More or less. The results still seem a little sloppy."</p><p>Together we put the rest of the utensils on the shelf. When they were done, Petra thanked me with emphasis and with a kindness that I returned with a smile.</p><p>"Tell me", Petra abruptly said, as if she suddenly remembered something. "You still have my handkerchief, could it be?"</p><p>"Yes." I felt as if all the color disappeared from my face. Biting my lower lip, I touched my forehead. Her handkerchief. I'd completely forgotten. It was probably still in my pocket from that night, wrinkled and dirty. "I haven't washed it yet," I said softly.</p><p>"It doesn't matter."</p><p>"Oh yes, it does."</p><p>"Pardon?"</p><p>"It's not polite to return borrowed things dirty."</p><p>"It was Oulo who spilled the beer on you," she laughed, "it's really no big deal."</p><p>"I'll wash it later and give it to Eld, all right?"</p><p>"Agreed." She sat down on one of the work tables, like Isabelle had done before. Again some streaks slipped down her forehead, which she stroked behind her ear, smiling. "Don't you have a girlfriend who could do that for you?"</p><p>"No," I replied carelessly, looking at the watch on my wrist. "Shit," I then burst out with a fierce hiss that wiped the smile off my face.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I should be at work by now."</p><p>"At work? Do you know what time we have?" She raised her eyebrows. "I thought you were on scholarship."</p><p>"I am." I told her to get up and leave the room with me. "But my family needs the money. Let's go. The sooner I get there, the better."</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Of course my boss didn't like it that I was late for work, but what could he do? I made up for what I had missed and by the time I left the shop in the dark I had done my regular workload. </p><p>A few days later I set off for the theatre. It was the evening of my meeting with Erwin Schmidt. I threatened to be late. Discussions with Farlan about the choice of my clothes had delayed my departure. I didn't have any evening clothes worth mentioning, so I had helped myself with a black suit, which I frequently wore.</p><p>Quickly I hurried through streets that were increasingly disappearing into the growing shadows of the surrounding roofs. Not a soul was on the way, and that alone was strange enough. I had barely turned into the narrow alley at Wittumspalais when it pulled my legs away. Before I knew what was happening, I banged face first on the floor. For a moment I felt nothing. Then cold and pain exploded in my limbs. My head was throbbing as if something had been pulled over my skull. Stars began to dance before my eyes.</p><p>Dazed, I sat up and looked down at myself. I had scraped my knees and palms on the cobblestone pavement in an attempt to soften the fall. Still busy putting my five senses back in order, mocking laughter rang out behind me.</p><p>"Well, look who rose from his high horse," cried the first one between two breaths. "How does it feel, huh?"</p><p>As slowly as possible I turned around, only so far as I could see out of the corner of my eye. There was a woman with short, blond hair and big eyes. With arms folded, she was leaning against the wall, a broad grin on her lips.</p><p>"Artists," she said in a mocking tone, "bourgeois children who think they are proletarians. Ridiculous, isn't it?"</p><p>"Parasites, nothing more. Enemies of the public. You should be put on trial for all you've done, for all your sick and twisted work." A laugh. "Just put them up against the wall and call it a day, simple as that." Not far from me, I discovered the young man from the day before. His slender face was distorted into a scornful grimace in the dull glow of the evening; the red hair formed a whirl on his forehead. They both wore brown shirts. Without realizing it, I must have passed them in a hurry, and now they had followed me, scenting their chance. Motionless I looked at them. Floch, or something like that, the older one had called him.</p><p>He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he grabbed my hair and straightened me up. Ordinarily, and despite my slender stature, I was a well-fortified man. I knew how to gain respect, if necessary by force. But they had caught me off guard and now I was at a disadvantage. Only cowards attacked from behind.</p><p>For a moment Floch looked at me, then he kicked me in the side and the air out of my lungs. A barking cough and wheezing followed my turn, then the pain, strong and numbing at the same time. My limbs gave way. With my arms wrapped around my upper body, I sank forward, cursing secretly that I had not seen all this coming.</p><p>"Don't overdo it', cried the young woman from behind. "You wanted to teach him a lesson, nothing more."</p><p>"I'll be careful, Yelena, don't worry." Floch sank his fingers into my hair again and lifted my head until our eyes met in the half-light of dusk. It was the lust for superiority that flowed from his eyes and made me want to spit.</p><p>"What the hell do you want?" I growled hatefully. Secretly I waited for my powers to return, for a moment of carelessness to create a path to freedom. Then they would see what the price was for messing with me.</p><p>"Speak a warning," Floch whispered with a smile. "You think you can have fun with us, huh? Tell you what. When we're done with you, a scratch on your forehead will be the least of your problems, you miserable Bolshevik bastard." The grin on his lips grew wider, distorted into the grotesque. "You just try and turn this place into Sodom and Gomorrah, we won't let you get away with this. It's time to put art back in its place."</p><p>"Oh, yeah?" Despite everything, I still had to laugh. It almost stuck in my throat, so much Floch pushed my head back, but it found its way.</p><p>"Cut it out." He grabbed me by the collar and pulled me towards him with a violent movement. I clasped my hands around Floch's finger, while I looked back at him unaffected. My heart was pounding. He might be younger than me, just a little, a year or two perhaps. From his eyes, however, spoke a determination, as if he had had to fight in all the wars of the world to reach this point in his life.</p><p>"You kick a guy in the ribs when he's down and you want to talk to me about decency?" Again I laughed. "You're obviously even bigger idiots than I thought."</p><p>My impudence seemed to surprise Floch. He paused for a moment, and I knew what to do now. Within fractions of a second I let my head jump forward and rammed my forehead into Floch's face. A disgusting crunch followed. Thereupon he began to scream and retreated.</p><p>I got free, but not from that spot. Before I could even start to escape, they had pounced on me, tugged at me, beat me, while I tried to gain the upper hand. They were by no means clumsy; it was the very strength of the girl that surprised me. Outnumbered, it did not take long before I found myself pressed face first against the next wall. With my arms twisted behind my back, I inhaled the smell of moss and mould. Then they whirled me around. It was Floch who pressed his elbow against my throat. Blood flowed from his nostrils over his face and dripped to the ground, his nose obviously broken. I began to cough. Thereupon Floch increased the pressure and I fell silent. Breathing had become impossible. Gradually I began to feel fear. My heart raged in my chest; sweat covered my body.</p><p>"What did you say?" he growled and looked out of the corner of his eye at his companion. "Yelena, I think he should repeat his statement, don't you think?"</p><p>"I do."</p><p>He then took his elbow away. I frantically sucked the air into my lungs and tried to push him away from me, but in vain. "I love to repeat myself", I said breathlessly, "but not for fascists like you."</p><p>Floch's fingers closed around my shoulders, pulled me close to him, only to smash me against the wall again. "You are an artist, aren't you?", he hissed. "Have you ever drawn with broken fingers?"</p><p>I spat in his face, but he reached for my hand.</p><p>"Floch", hissed Yelena beside him.</p><p>"Shut up," he said.</p><p>Steps sounded behind us. "What's going on here?"</p><p>A third person's voice cut through the darkness. A hand closed around Floch's throat, then he was pulled off me, pressed against the opposite wall that bordered the alley. At that moment the street lamps turned on, illuminated the scene, bathed everything in their glaring, artificial light. Eyes widened in horror, Yelena watched the scene, then, with a last glance at her imprisoned comrade, she turned away and disappeared.</p><p>Touching my neck with my hand, I recognized Schmidt, who threw Floch against the wall several times. Between them a short conversation developed, a mutual spitting out of threats and violent, short sentences, which I followed only casually. In contrast to Floch, one recognized in Schmidt's movements a certain routine of violence, which the months on the front must have left in him. When Schmidt let Floch go shortly afterwards, he ran as if his life was at stake. His face serious, his brow furrowed, Schmidt looked after him.</p><p>"How I hate these pigs," he growled.</p><p>"I didn't see them coming." I began to cough again, my hand still at my throat. It felt strangely dry. Every breath burned. Carefully, I freed myself from the wall. I swayed, my knees soft and weak.</p><p>"There's a demonstration at the theater," said Schmidt. "Apparently, today's play is not agreeable enough for the local rights." He sounded thoughtful. "Did you know them?"</p><p>"The redhead." I took a deep breath. "He was lurking outside the theatre the other day, shouting at people. His name is Floch." In brief, I told him about the unpleasant encounter of the day before and the ambush I'd been involved in. Again and again I coughed. With the flat of my hand I drove over my side, where the shoe had hit me. "Nothing seems to be broken," I murmured and Schmidt nodded.</p><p>With a furrowed forehead Schmidt looked down and scratched his head. "Doesn't seem to have a sense of humour, this Floch," he said.</p><p>"No."</p><p>"What a hassle." Schmidt approached me. "I feel guilty. In the end, you only came here tonight because of me."</p><p>"Nonsense. This is a small town. They were probably just waiting to catch me alone."</p><p>"It's possible." Schmidt took a look at the watch. "We still have some time left. Come. There's more light over here." He touched me by the shoulders and led me out of the alley. As he did so, his fingers crept gently through the fabric of the jacket. I offered no resistance. The unexpected encounter was still too much in my bones. Although I tried to make a calm impression, secretly we both knew that it was not the whole truth.</p><p>We stopped under a street lamp. Schmidt carefully examined my face, looked at every millimeter of the maltreated face. Finally he reached out for me and stroked some of the black streaks from my forehead. I flinched, for the pain shot across my temple as if from nowhere.</p><p>"You hit your head," Schmidt said in a low voice.</p><p>"Maybe I did." Gently, his fingertips stroked my skin. I let my gaze sink, feeling uncomfortable. "They must have hit me with something when I came around the corner."</p><p>"I'm sure they did. You have a scratch on your forehead."</p><p>My hands clenched in fists. "Those bastards. Normally I could have taken them on without any trouble, but they came out of nowhere."</p><p>"I have no doubt about that." A thin smile appeared on Schmidt's lips. "You're not one to keep your opinions to yourself, I guess."</p><p>"You bet your ass I'm not."</p><p>"Were you unconscious?"</p><p>"I don't think so."</p><p>"You don't think so?"</p><p>"What's the matter? Are you not only an architect, but also a doctor, you wunderkind?"</p><p>Then Schmidt began to laugh. It sounded warmer than I thought it would. "Hold still," he said.</p><p>"What are you going to do?"</p><p>He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a flask and a handkerchief. "I want to disinfect your wound."</p><p>"I don't need it." I raised my hands defensively, but Schmidt shook his head.</p><p>"Have some pity on my guilty conscience," he said.</p><p>"You know it was me who was attacked, don't you?"</p><p>"Of course." Once again he laughed. Then he opened the flask and put some of its contents on the handkerchief. Gently he dabbed it over my forehead; when he reached the wound, I flinched.</p><p>"Damn," I hissed. "What's in there?"</p><p>"Whiskey." Schmidts voice indicated a smile on his face.</p><p>"Give me that." I pulled the flask out of his hand and took a big sip. Tart and earthy, the taste remained on my lips. Warmth coursed through my veins and drove the final tension out of my limbs.</p><p>"Are you all right?" asked Schmidt.</p><p>"I am now."</p><p>"Good." Schmidt took a step back, picked up the flask, drank himself, then put the bottle away. "It would be better to report what happened to the police," he began.</p><p>"They are of the same breed," I replied. "If they hear that a Bauhaus student has been roughed up by a pack of brown shirts, they'll only make it worse, but that's it."</p><p>"I know." Schmidt sighed, crossed his arms in front of his chest, thought, then finally unclasped them and put his hands in his coat pockets. "Look, if you'd rather go home, I understand. Have a rest. I don't want you to drag yourself through the night with a concussion. I suppose you don't feel much like theater anymore anyway."</p><p>"No." I shook my head vigorously. "Now more than ever. I will not be intimidated. Besides, I'm all right." I suggested a smile. "Don't you want to know what's the reason for all this fuss?"</p><p>"Sure I do." Schmidt seemed relieved. "However, it might happen", he said, "that you will not be let inside now".</p><p>"Why is that?" In astonishment, I let my gaze drift down. My trousers had a tear, and the jacket seemed to be damaged as well. With the flat of my hand I tried to remove the dirt, but a battered impression remained. I'll ask Isabelle to mend my clothes tomorrow, I thought.</p><p>"Wait." Schmidt began to grin. "I have an idea." He took off his coat and handed it to me. It was a thin black wool coat, plain but well made. I could see the hand-sewn seams even through the dim light of the street lamps.</p><p>"What am I gonna do with this?" I raised my eyes and stopped. It was only now that I realized how nobly Schmidt had dressed up for the evening. He was wearing the same suit he'd worn that night in the atelier, only this time a plain white bow tie was seen on the stand-up collar of his shirt. Patent leather shoes shone in the electric light of the lantern. The lapel of his dinner jacket was trimmed in silk.</p><p>"My God", I blurted out, "You're a bourgeois, Herr Schmidt."</p><p>"Don't be a snob," he said with a laugh.</p><p>"A snob?"</p><p>"Despising me for my money. As if I could help it, Herr Ackermann, I do good work, and it pays well, it's as simple as that."</p><p>"If you say so." I pointed to the coat. "Do you really think I'd wear it? You're about a head taller than me. I'll look like a kid who stole his father's clothes."</p><p>"Of course, there's that possibility." Schmidt shrugged. "It's merely a suggestion. The decision is, of course, yours." We remained silent for a moment. With suspicion, I looked back at the cloak Schmidt was holding for me with almost childish amusement. "I promise not to laugh," he finally said.</p><p>"Very well," I remarked. "Give it to me." With a groan, I took the coat from his hand. I slipped inside. Now my wounds were no longer visible - but as expected, the coat was way too big. "You see?" I pointed to the hem. "It almost reaches the floor."</p><p>"It's not as bad as that."</p><p>"lt isn't?" I raised my eyebrows.</p><p>"Really." Our eyes met. Slowly, very gradually, a subdued smile spread to Schmidt's lips.</p><p>"Oy," I called and Schmidt burst out laughing.</p><p>"I'm sorry," he finally stammered.</p><p>"You promised."</p><p>"I know, I know, it's just-" Schmidt raised his hands in a defensive manner. "It looks silly, you're right." I turned to leave. "Wait, wait!" He urged me not to take off my coat at once. "We will take it off immediately in the wardrobe anyway, I beg you. I'll pull myself together, really."</p><p>"Really?" I looked at him with cold eyes. Schmidt averted my gaze with a most restrained expression, but it did not last long. Only seconds later, he began to laugh again. I could see tears glistening in his eyes.</p><p>"You're the very worst, Schmidt," I grumbled and crossed my arms over my chest.</p><p>"I know," he whispered guiltily and gasped for breath. "Forgive me."</p><p>"Yeah, sure. Come." With a disparaging sound I turned away. "The sooner I get rid of this thing, the better. And God help you if you dare laugh again."</p>
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<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In fact, people had gathered on the Theaterplatz that evening as well to protest against the evening's play. Besides bourgeois groups I saw among them again the brown shirts from before. When they discovered me, I once again received hostile looks. Nevertheless, I passed the square at Schmidt's side without further incident, entered the theatre, showed the ticket Schmidt had given me before, and found myself in the foyer only moments later.</p><p>Five minutes afterwards I had handed in my coat. I felt as if the guests around me did not let me out of their sight. What they thought of my battered appearance was easy for me to see. My arms crossed in front of my chest, I tried to ignore them. I hardly spoke with Schmidt. The elaborate, neoclassical design of the theatre, the fine evening attire of the guests, the appearance of my companion, but above all the throbbing in my temples, they held me captive.</p><p>At the sound of the first bell we took our seats, parquet floor, in the middle right, far in front. It was the first time ever that I went to the theatre, because usually the tickets were too expensive for me. I didn't mention this to Schmidt.</p><p>It was a room from the olden days, with lots of stucco, gold trimmings and red velvet. I liked it. Barely five years ago, an entire republic had been founded in this very room. I could hardly believe it, now that I was sitting here, in silent expectation of the play I had been promised, surrounded by people who probably did not waste a thought on such historic events.</p><p>"What is actually being given?" I finally asked.</p><p>"La Ronde," Schmidt replied. With his programme he was fanning himself, because it was unexpectedly hot and stuffy. "From Schnitzler. Do you know it?"</p><p>"Never heard of it."</p><p>"It seems to have caused quite a considerable scandal in Berlin."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>Schmidt began to grin. "They thought it was too frivolous." We changed a meaningful look and began to laugh. We both knew who was responsible for such criticism: plain, high-necked ladies in too tight corsets and old, white gentlemen with moustaches; people who faked fainting at the sight of an unclothed ankle, then sued the theatre and secretly took the libretto home to masturbate.</p><p>"Oh, shucks." I waved it away. "I'm sure it's not as bad at all."</p><p>Schmidt nodded. "Of course not," I heard him mumble beside me, then the room was darkened.</p>
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<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Although at the beginning I still believed that the brawl in front of the theatre was the worst point of the evening, I was soon proven wrong. The plot of the play, if one wanted to call it such, was quickly summarized. In ten scenes, ten protagonists took over the reins. At the beginning, one saw a prostitute talking to a soldier, but in the following scene the soldier was talking to a maid. The maid in turn spoke to a young man from a good family and so on. Thus one climbed up the social hierarchy, by the way in the finest Viennese dialect, until the highest-ranking member of the Dramatis Personae had finally reached the prostitute again. But there was an unexpected twist to it: all the conversations ultimately led to sexual intercourse. They were small, heartily dirty dialogues, which were offered there. Although the couples could not be seen during the said action, the sounds offered spoke for themselves. Not only did one lady next to me turn almost as red as her evening gown, but Schmidt too seemed to be fanning himself now and then, more quickly than usual, his face as motionless as a block of granite.</p><p>When the play ended after two hours, I had sweated through my shirt completely. Like the other visitors to the evening, I rose with my companion and joined the stream that led out into the, I hoped, cooler night air. Yet the hall remained unexpectedly quiet. Only here and there did I hear restrained whispering. Was it the reaction that Schnitzler had wanted to evoke? I did not know. To me it was as if I had been offered everything imaginable in this world that very night, on this very stage, and everything I had never wanted to see, even beyond. Nevertheless, it had been well written. What else, however, would one expect from Schnitzler?</p><p>Schmidt avoided looking at me. He fetched his coat from the cloakroom while I waited in front of the exit, then we went out into the pitch black night, walked through the streets and said nothing for a long time. Finally I lit a cigarette. I held the case out to Schmidt, and he took one, too. Smoking together, we walked in silence until our footsteps had carried us to the edge of the park.</p><p>"Tell me, Schmidt," I finally broke the silence. The cigarette between my fingers, placed against my lips, caught Schmidt's attention.</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>"The play."</p><p>"What about it?"</p><p>I took a deep breath. "There was something..." I interrupted myself, trying to find the right words. "It's not that I'm a prude."</p><p>"Neither am I."</p><p>"Nevertheless. Somehow it had something - I don't know." I bit my lower lip for a moment. "It was pornographic, wasn't it?"</p><p>Looking down at the floor, Schmidt nodded. "It was."</p><p>"Good."</p><p>"It was definitely pornographic."</p><p>"Although one couldn't see anything."</p><p>"Despite that."</p><p>I sighed. Once again I put my cigarette between my lips. "I thought it was me," I murmured and took a deep drag.</p><p>"Not at all."</p><p>"What sort of plays are you dragging me into, Herr Schmidt?"</p><p>"Did I tell you that my boss bought the tickets and invited me to dinner?"</p><p>"I don't recall."</p><p>Schmidt ran his fingers through his hair, which had been perfectly combed back. "Imagine, the Masters of the House, me in between, and then a play like this. I suppose they would have made fun of it afterwards and walked their way. They have a very loose way of dealing with these things in life." He shook his head. "I'm sorry if I offended you, it was unintentional. Everything seems to go wrong when I'm with you."</p><p>"Could be." After one last drag, I dropped the cigarette on the floor and kicked it out. I put my hands in my pockets. "It was quite appealing in its language, however."</p><p>"It certainly was."</p><p>"If you don't mind all that Viennese gibberish."</p><p>"Yes." Schmidt snorted with amusement. Then there was silence. It was as if no one really knew what to say to each other after a time like that.</p><p>"It's probably an evening I won't soon forget." I stopped. "But I should probably be getting back."</p><p>"Are you tired?"</p><p>"No, but I'm hungry."</p><p>"Of course." Schmidt smiled at me, but he didn't seem sure. "It is late. I don't suppose you've had dinner. And your head..." He pointed at his forehead.</p><p>"Thank you for the invitation."</p><p>"Not at all."</p><p>I gave him a quick glance out of the corner of my eye. There was no denying Schmidt seemed downcast about the chaotic evening. I raised my hand once more in greeting, then we parted ways. Just before my steps took me around the first bend, Schmidt's voice sounded behind me once more: "Herr Ackermann?"</p><p>I stopped and turned around to face him, just a little, so I could see. "Yes?"</p><p>"Stay a little longer. Just a little." Schmidt took a step towards me and gave me a smile, faintly, but it didn't fail to work. Slowly, the tension disappeared from me. Schmidt didn't look like he was from this world, the way he stood before me in his fine clothes. Gloves, gaiters and walking stick, and he could easily be the actor in a silent movie. "Let us have dinner together."</p><p>"Now?"</p><p>"Yes." He kept coming at me. "I don't know about you - but letting the evening end like this doesn't feel right for me." Schmidt stopped just before I did. His eyes searched for mine and I discovered an urgency in him that I had never seen before. "Do you agree?"</p><p>"Herr Schmidt," I said. It was not that I did not enjoy his company, quite the contrary. "Just to be clear: I have no money for such adventures. I'm a poor wretch. With the money I earn I can barely make ends meet."</p><p>"I invite you. Please."</p><p>"You're serious." I looked at him with astonishment. Schmidt seemed to sense my diminishing resistance, for as if from nothing, his smile grew wider, brighter.</p><p>"Please, make me happy. What else do I have to work for?"</p><p>"I could think of all sorts of things", I muttered, but Schmidt just laughed, put one arm around my shoulder and led me back into the deep black night.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Erwin took us to a hotel at the market place. I knew it. It was the most expensive accommodation in town. Why on earth did he come here of all places? I thought, and yet I followed him.</p><p>Like in the theatre before, the waiters did not miss my bruised appearance. But after a short conversation with Schmidt they assigned us a table in a corner of the room. Secretly I did not ask what the two of them might have been talking about, but I refrained from asking.</p><p>After we sat down, I felt the wound on my forehead. "I hope there won't be a black eye," I murmured and arranged my hair to hide the wound for those around me.</p><p>Schmidt laughed. "I don't want to disappoint you," he said, "but the odds are against you."</p><p>"I know." I sighed and looked around. There were hardly any guests, and that alone was probably the main reason why we were not immediately expelled from the restaurant. Everything here seemed high class and exclusive, the antique furniture, the silk wallpaper. All appeared to be clean and appealing, one talked in a subdued way, only the soft clatter of cutlery filled the air. The waiter brought us the menu. I opened it. There were no prices next to the dishes. "A pub would have done just as well."</p><p>"That's all right."</p><p>"Why's that?"</p><p>"I live here." When Schmidt noticed the look on my face, he started to laugh. "Don't look at me like that, I'm not paying for it myself." With a fleeting gesture, he pointed to the room. "Granted, it's very exclusive here, even for me. I was only supposed to stay here for a few days, but now that it looks like I'll be staying in Weimar for a while longer, sooner or later a move will be due. They are currently looking for furnished rooms for me, so if you know someone, please let me know."</p><p>"How long do you intend to stay here?"</p><p>"For the semester, certainly. Hardly any longer. I have commitments in Leipzig."</p><p>The waiter came back and took their orders. He had already turned away to return to the kitchen, when Schmidt added a local red wine.</p><p>"The best you'll ever drink," he smiled across the table and winked.</p><p>"We'II see." I crossed my arms in front of my chest. "Commitments in Leipzig, you said?"</p><p>"Yes. I made partner in an architecture firm, although Klee likes to pass me off as owner. Wishful thinking on his part, I guess he's had a thing for me ever since." Schmidt leaned back in his chair. The fingers of his right hand played on the stem of the wine glass provided, but it was still empty. Now and then he looked at me, for a few seconds at a time, barely. Then I felt as if his eyes were piercing my soul and I had to lower my gaze to withstand him. "However, I cannot complain," Schmidt continued. "All in all, there is something nostalgic about my return here."</p><p>"Because of your studies?"</p><p>"Yes." He nodded. "It was a good time. All signs were pointing to a fresh start. A new republic, a new world, a new man. That was the way it was meant to be. We wanted to be a part of it, that's why we came here. I guess it was the same for you."</p><p>Now it was me who nodded. "However, we do not offer a degree in architecture," I added.</p><p>"I had already finished my studies when I came here. The program of the place and the courses, the teachers, they attracted me. In the end, it paid off, in every way imaginable. I was more shaped here than in all those years at school and university, I was taught here to think."</p><p>The wine was brought. Schmidt tasted it, found it appropriate and had it poured. "Not to mention the contacts. Contacts are all that matters. Forget the rest."</p><p>"Is that so?"</p><p>"You can be the best of your generation, but if no one knows you, it'll do you little good."</p><p>I looked at him for a while. Was he serious? I myself was more concerned with ability than the social network. The genius, the beauty that was in man, not the bloodsuckers who wanted to profit from it. "Suppose I chose a career in graphic design," I said.</p><p>"Then it would be the same." Schmidt raised his glass and saluted me before he took a sip. I followed his example. The wine was good, no, excellent, not to be compared with the booze I was hoarding with Farlan in our apartment. "It's unfair," Schmidt continued, "there's no denying it. But that's the way the world works." Then he smiled at me across the table. "So you're in graphic design?"</p><p>I nodded. Schmidt then shook his head back and forth as if he liked this new knowledge of me. "I was there then, too," he said. "Do you still have that press that gets so jammed up when it rains that nobody can loosen it? In my second year I had to hand in my portfolio almost incomplete, because the last print was still between the plates."</p><p>"Yes, it still exists." We laughed. "Nothing but trouble. Now it gets stuck when the sun is shining."</p><p>"Well, that's outrageous."</p><p>"Nobody wants to use it."</p><p>"It ought to be punished."</p><p>"I don't think it would change anything."</p><p>"We had a few laughs with her in the past."</p><p>"So?"</p><p>"Yes, we did." Schmidt laughed, and it lasted a long time. "Printed nonsense and vulgarity with her. Woe to whoever found that stuff." He waved it off. "One time it was done during an official visit from the state legislature." He laughed again. "Gropius was really upset. There was even a speech to the students with the explicit request to refrain from such activities in the future. The official culprits of the incident, however, were never found." He raised his eyebrows and gave me a meaningful look.</p><p>"You were behind it all along," I said. Schmidt shrugged his shoulders.</p><p>"Who knows," he whispered mysteriously, but the mischief in his eyes remained. The way he looked at me, he could have been Hermes himself, the messenger of the gods, king of pranks, who had played all sorts of jokes on people, and was cunning in the process, and beautiful as a picture. "You know how Gropius feels about political statements by students. In my time, there were some who were not allowed to continue their studies because they were too left or too right and didn't want to make a secret of it."</p><p>"I think Gropius fears the funding of the institution."</p><p>"Perhaps. It doesn't help him anyway."</p><p>Dinner was served, arranged to perfection, duck, roast, potatoes, tossed in a pan, all draped, dressed with broth, a few vegetables here and there to loosen things up. We began to eat. For a while there was a reverent silence. The food was delicious.</p><p>"Why did you become an architect?" I asked. Schmidt paused for a moment, the cutlery resting between his fingers, his eyes still fixed on the plate. He hesitated, just for a moment, but I noticed. Finally he looked at me in the most serious manner.</p><p>"I promised someone," he said, and I thought I heard a certain sadness in his voice. "But that's another story for another evening. It happened a long time ago, too."</p><p>We were silent for a moment, then Schmidt spoke to me again. "How about you?"</p><p>"About me?"</p><p>"You want to be a printer?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Why? I thought you saw yourself as an artist?"</p><p>"I don't think I'll have any other choice in the long run, I guess. There is nothing so terrible for a man as poverty. I don't want to have to live like this forever. I've been going on like this too long already."</p><p>"I see." Schmidt nodded, slowly, with an aura of importance. "What does your family say?"</p><p>"Nothing. They're quite self-absorbed, to be honest."</p><p>"Families like that are plentiful." Schmidt pulled a face. "My own is not free of such people."</p><p>I thought about our conversation in the atelier. Schmidt had said that names were a good indication of the future we were supposed to live up to. Friend of the army, that was the meaning of the name Erwin. What kind of family did he come from? His life had already progressed too far for his upbringing to be written directly on his face.</p><p>"Your father died during war?" Schmidt asked.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"That must have been difficult for you. Not to mention your mother."</p><p>A lump of tension formed in my chest, just below the ribs. Without realizing it, I put my hand on top of it and cleared my throat. "I have few memories of him," I said in a low voice. "He was a reservist. In August 1914, they drafted him and sent him away, first to the Eastern Front, then to the West."</p><p>"When again did he fall?"</p><p>"1917, in Verdun during summer. More I cannot tell you. My mother burned all his letters and photographs."</p><p>"She did what?" Schmidt seemed genuinely surprised. "Why?"</p><p>"I guess it was her way of dealing with it."</p><p>"Everybody looks for freedom within their means." Schmidt took another sip of wine.</p><p>"Of course, it didn't help. The cigarette case," I reached into the breast pocket of my jacket and pulled it out, "is my only memory of him."</p><p>With a pleading gesture, Schmidt reached out for it and I handed it to him. He turned it over in his hands, devoutly. No detail escaped his gaze, which glided over it with the greatest concentration. "It's beautiful," he muttered, "very delicately worked. Silver, isn't it?"</p><p>"Yes. He got it from his father. He always said it was his most treasured possession."</p><p>"And now it's yours."</p><p>"Maybe." I reached out and Schmidt gave it back to me. In silence, I put it back where it belonged. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," I said.</p><p>"I asked you, didn't I?"</p><p>"I'm not usually this way."</p><p>"Like what?"</p><p>"So talkative. Doesn't my chatter bore you?"</p><p>"Not at all."</p><p>"Stories like mine exist in this Republic by the thousands. I don't know why it's worth mentioning. If you told me a story like that, I'd definitely be bored."</p><p>Schmidt laughed, but so softly that it couldn't be heard at the next table. "You speak very fondly of your father, for you hardly knew him. I think that's very worth mentioning."</p><p>"Isn't that normal?" I replied. "It's easier to appreciate someone you didn't know than if you were well acquainted with the other person's faults and shortcomings. I don't know what kind of person he was, my family--"</p><p>"Is not talking about such things."</p><p>"Yes. I like to remember him as kind."</p><p>Schmidt was no stranger to this sort of thing. He didn't have to say it, I could see it in his eyes.</p><p>"Would you like to meet him again, your father?" he asked and I frowned.</p><p>"Who knows," I replied after a pause. "On the one hand I do. My financial situation would certainly be more relaxed if he were still alive. On the other hand, maybe it's better the way it is now." I paused, then, quickly, I continued: "I have always respected him, you know."</p><p>"You seem that way."</p><p>"Pardon?"</p><p>"Like a good son."</p><p>"What about you?" I asked. "Do you see your father often?"</p><p>Schmidt shook his head. "We have no contact."</p><p>"I'm sorry about that."</p><p>"I'm not." As if he was trying to soften the harshness of his words, Schmidt suggested a smile.</p><p>The waiter returned to our table and picked up the used dishes.</p><p>"Would you like to see the menu again?"</p><p>"No, everything is perfect," replied Schmidt.</p><p>"Would you like dessert?"</p><p>Schmidt gave me a questioning look, but I shook my head. Then he poured me more wine and the waiter went away.</p><p>I thanked him, let my gaze rest on Schmidt, secretly observing his every gesture, his every move, however small. At the beginning of the evening I had been tense, agitated by the attack, nervous about going to the theatre, but that subsided more and more. Was it the conversation or the wine? The company? I didn't know, but somehow it seemed irrelevant, so to speak. When I thought back to the aura of arrogance and self-confidence that had surrounded Schmidt when we first met, it seemed to me that I had been able to get to know two people in a very short time. Schmidt was friendly, almost caring, now that we were in private, and secretly I welcomed it.</p><p>He is beautiful, I thought and my fingers went through an involuntary twitching, beautiful in a holistic way, encompassing body and soul. There was a radiance in his eyes that could be inspiring. I wondered if he knew that. After his words that evening I was no longer sure.</p><p>"The fact that you think I'm a mere service provider has hit me," Schmidt said suddenly and with a hint of irony. I raised my eyebrows.</p><p>"Really?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Well, who'd have imagined that?" The corners of my mouth twitched. "I didn't see that coming."</p><p>"No?"</p><p>"You don't seem like someone who gives much thought to third parties' opinions."</p><p>"I'm honored." Schmidt laughed again.</p><p>"Don't you think so?"</p><p>"Do you think an architect can be an artist, too?"</p><p>"No, I don't."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"As I said, money is the main thing. You have to please in order to survive."</p><p>"We make designs and present them. Not all of them are implemented. What about the designs that remain? Will they become art again?"</p><p>"No. It's about intention."</p><p>"Which means that once I design without the intention of realization, it can be art again?"</p><p>"If you design for the sake of designing, yes, then, perhaps. You don't have to feel offended, I never said there was anything wrong with not being an artist. In the end, it doesn't matter what I think. Isn't that what you said to me? Why are you breaking with it now? I've never even seen your work. In fact, I don't know a damn thing about you."</p><p>I looked at Schmidt and I froze. A look had been entered in his face that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. His eyes, big and blue like ice, looked at me with an intensity as if they wanted to burn themselves into me, and a smile adorned his lips that seemed out of this world.</p><p>"Would you like to?" he asked, his voice as soft as if in a trance.</p><p>His expression got to me. The immediacy of his feelings evoked a subtle disgust in me, like the faint smell of decay that tends to sicken one despite all the sweetness. And yet I couldn't let go of him.</p><p>"What?" I whispered.</p><p>"To see my work." Fascination, it rushed through my mind and my fingers clasped the stem of my wine glass a little tighter. I fascinate him.</p><p>"What kind of question is that?" I tried to laugh, but it sounded fragile and hoarse. "You won't have that stuff here anyway." But Schmidt nodded. With one blow, he whiped the smile from my face.</p><p>"I hate to leave the originals in the office," he said. "It would be a shame if anything were to be damaged or lost."</p><p>We looked at each other and my heart began to beat faster."I'd really like to see your work," I suddenly said, thinking of the respect that the sheer sound of Schmidt's name had won from my fellow students. "If you don't mind."</p><p>"Not at all." With these words, Schmidt raised his hand and waved the waiter up to us. He paid for us both. Then we went upstairs.</p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On our short walk through staircases and corridors we did not speak. Schmidt went ahead and I followed, my hands buried in my trouser pockets, excited, although I didn't understand why. The scent of Schmidt's aftershave mingled with the hotel's own smell of flowers and cleaning products, and yet it remained familiar to me: musk, cinnamon and honey, so strange, so sweet.</p><p>"It's here." Schmidt glanced over his shoulder as if to make sure we were alone, then he unlocked the door and went ahead. I followed him and closed the door behind me. It was still dark, only the light from the street lamps gave everything a dull glow. Here Schmidt's smell condensed to the highest concentration, made the air thick and heavy and seemed to stick everywhere, it was the place where he lived, his place, even if only for this short time, there was no doubt about it.</p><p>Schmidt switched on the light, a floor lamp by the window, the bedside lamps next to the bed. "Of course, you won't be able to see the colours very well," he said casually, clearing away what was not meant for the eyes of unexpected visitors. "The light is too yellowish, but surely you know this yourself."</p><p>I let my gaze wander. It was a large, square room with a double bed and its own bathroom. By the window stood a modern desk, a little away from it a tall wardrobe made of dark wood. This room alone had more comfort than I would ever find in my small apartment.</p><p>"Would you like a drink?" Schmidt asked in the background.</p><p>"Please." I heard the clinking of glasses, the gentle sound of a glass bottle whose cork was being removed, then the honey-sweet splash of flowing alcohol. Schmidt handed me the glass. It was whiskey. We drank together, then Schmidt got rid of his dinner jacket, hung it up, opened the bow tie and the first button of his shirt and stored the cummerbund, which he had wrapped around his narrow hips, in his wardrobe.</p><p>"Terribly uncomfortable," he said in an apologetic tone and smiled. I grinned in my whiskey and turned away, but continued to look at him out of the corner of my eye. There was a strange atmosphere that filled the room, quiet, slightly tense, yet strangely intimate. How many people before me would have entered this room?</p><p>From one corner of the room Schmidt took out a very large folder and placed it on the desk. With deft fingers he opened the lacing. I approached him, the glass still in my hands.</p><p>"They're only sketches," Schmidt said in an excusing tone.</p><p>"Less talking, more showing, Schmidt." I pushed past him and opened the notebook. A stack of paper stretched out in front of me, different in size, texture and colour. Gently, I went through the sketches, one by one. Most of them were technical drawings, but now and then they were fully coloured presentation boards. They were buildings, one by one, stations, schools, high-rise buildings, sometimes even bridges. They were all very simple, almost matter-of-fact, and that's how they should be. The influence of their shared school was obvious, yet the style was unique. A connoisseur would have been immediately able to identify these works and their creators. I could not help noticing Schmidt's tense expression, quietly awaiting my judgement.</p><p>"You worked on all these buildings?"</p><p>"Partly." He pushed the sheets aside and pulled out some plaques. "Some were submitted to competitions, but never realized, like this one. This here, I designed just to pass the time. It was never intended for presentation. You're probably the first person to see it since it was finished." He pointed to an intricate skyscraper in various shades of grey. "But this one was built." He pulled out a drawing of another building. The signature on the drawing indicated that it was a department store. "You see those arches there?" With his index finger he pointed to a spot in the middle of the building. "We had to rearrange it five times because the customer had changed his mind in the meantime. In the end, it upset the entire structure so much that we were about to abandon the project."</p><p>"And then?"</p><p>"I told the client he either had to let us do our work or find another architectural firm." Schmidt's characteristic laugh filled the room. "You can hardly imagine how annoyed we were. But in the end it turned out to be a fantastic building. It's in Stuttgart, in case you should ever stop by there."</p><p>"Not bad, in fact" I nodded approvingly and took a sip of whiskey. It had to be of high quality; it didn't burn on the tongue. "So you've found a niche for yourself between art and selling out."</p><p>"What do you mean, between art and selling out?"</p><p>"You claimed your freedom. He might as well have pulled the assignment, but he let you do it."</p><p>"He had already invested so much money that a withdrawal would have been very costly," Schmidt said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "At a critical mass of investment, you have the strings more and more in your hand, because it would hardly be worthwhile for the client to jump off. It allows a greater artistic focus."</p><p>"Hm." I leaned my hip against the desk. "You know how to stand your ground."</p><p>"Certainly."</p><p>"Are you a intriguer, Schmidt?"</p><p>A smile came over his lips. "Possibly."</p><p>"Good for you." Once again, I leaned over the notepad. "Did you draw all this freehand?" I asked, seeking his glance. "The buildings, of course, seem very technical."</p><p>Astonishment appeared on Schmidt's face. "Of course not," he said. "But it's not that I didn't study freehand drawing." He suggested a smile. "Of course I'm a little rusty, but I guess it's like riding a bicycle - you don't forget, you know?"</p><p>"No, I don't, actually."</p><p>"No bike?"</p><p>"No money. Remember?"</p><p>"I see." He patiently explained the phrase to me. And I watched him at length, without haste, while an idea rose within me, briskly, boldly, and probably attributed to whiskey and wine.</p><p>"Have you always drawn only buildings?"</p><p>"Mostly."</p><p>"Can you draw portraits?"</p><p>"Yes, I can."</p><p>"Even nudes?"</p><p>"That too."</p><p>"Good." I finished the glass and put it on the table. "Draw me."</p><p>"I beg your pardon?" Slowly, Schmidt lowered the glass in his hands and turned to me. He looked surprised. No, he seemed more than surprised. He seemed upset.</p><p>"You have everything here, don't you?"</p><p>"Yes, but--"</p><p>"There you go." Eagerly I looked at him. I took off the battered jacket and dropped it on the nearest chair. "You already know how I see you, now it's your turn." With routine movements I unbuttoned the button-facing of my shirt. Seconds later I pulled the shirt over my head and placed it on the jacket. There was no shame in my actions. It felt natural.</p><p>Motionless, lips slightly open, Schmidt stared at me.</p><p>"Right now?" he whispered.</p><p>"Of course. Or do you think I'll still look this bruised next week?" I opened my shoes and pants. A moment later, I was standing naked in front of him. Schmidt didn't move. He, who had helped out spontaneously barely two weeks earlier, discarded his clothes and served as a model, looked at me as if he had never seen a man before in his life.</p><p>"Are you deaf?" I snapped my fingers. "Or are you deliberately being stupid right now?"</p><p>Silence. I got cold standing there. "I'll put my clothes back on," I said, shrugging my shoulders and reaching for my shirt.</p><p>"Why?" Little by little, Schmidt seemed to awaken from his stupor.</p><p>"Because you're staring at me like an idiot, that's why."</p><p>The words had their effect. A faint snort left Schmidt's throat and the resistance seemed to fall away from him. "All right," he said and pointed to the bed. "Sit down. I will prepare everything."</p><p> </p><p>He took a large drawing pad from a corner of a room, pulled a pencil case out of the drawer of his desk and sat down on a chair not far from me. I took a seat at the edge of the bed, offset to the side, both feet firmly on the floor, my back straight. I supported myself on the mattress with one hand, while the other rested on my knee. That's the way it was supposed to go, I thought, and Erwin, who was pouring himself another shot of whiskey, seemed to do the same, because he let me do it.</p><p>Still he seemed nervous. It took a while until he found his rhythm, until the scratching of the pencil over the paper was no longer interrupted by extended pauses. His eyes lay on me, tracing each of my forms and I thought I could feel them on my body. Yet they never touched my face, as if I could rob him of his innermost thoughts, should our eyes meet. Sometimes the boundaries blurred and I forgot that it was me who was being drawn, that much I absorbed every one of Schmidt's movements, the small wrinkles that formed around his eyes when he was uncertain, the way he bit his lower lip when the concentration overwhelmed him. The shape of his hands, the way his fingers surrounded the pencil, slender, yet shapely and full of strength.</p><p>After a while Schmidt rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and placed the cufflinks on a side table. They glittered in the light of the lamps as he continued. In this way time passed, I couldn't tell how much, only that the atmosphere seemed to grow thicker with every minute passing, until I found it difficult to remain still in my pose.</p><p>Suddenly the sound of pencil on paper died. "Your hand," Schmidt said.</p><p>"What about it?"</p><p>"Move it a little further to the left."</p><p>I followed his instructions. "Like this?"</p><p>He shook his head. "No," Schmidt said, repeating his request. Again I obeyed. Again, he was dissatisfied. So it went back and forth several times until finally he stood up and approached me. He leaned over to me. His fingers closed around my wrist, as fleeting as a breeze, as if he wanted to avoid touching me at all. Yet he came so close that I felt the warmth of his body, perceived his smell, looked at him while my heartbeat accelerated, once more that evening. My eyes glided over the slightly opened shirt that unfolded before me, down to the waistband of Schmidt's trousers, whereupon my breath stopped for a moment. Schmidt, who had to feel that something was going, paused in his movement. For a moment there was a tense silence, then before I knew what I was doing, I stretched out my hand and let my fingers slide over Schmidt's crotch. I could not help it. The fabric stretched tightly over it, behind it nothing but pulsating heat. My cheeks began to glow.</p><p>"You are hard", I whispered and searched for Schmidt's gaze. My breath accelerated. I felt as if his heat was transferring to me. But when I noticed the way Schmidt looked at me, my hand flinched back. Startled in terror, his eyes widened, he stared at me as if I had pushed him into the darkest abyss of his soul. It took a few seconds before I could interpret the expression in his eyes. It was fear, so strong that it could bring even a soldier to his knees. Slowly, as if he had lost all control over his body, Schmidt sank to the ground with his knees. His eyes only glanced at me fleetingly, then he looked into nothingness. His fingers still held my wrist. I could hear his heart beating. It galloped in violent, loud beats, while a slight tremor gripped my breath. Suddenly everything became clear to me.</p><p>I bent forward until my lips were close to Schmidt's ear. My nose touched his temple, his pomade-scented hair. He did not avoid me. Instead, he leaned against me with his eyes closed.</p><p>"That is why you said nothing then," I whispered. "You wanted to watch me, didn't you? You liked what you could see, enjoyed it even."</p><p>Schmidt swallowed. His Adam's apple, protruding and prominent, wandered up and down. I stretched out my hand and let my fingertips slide down his cheek, down his neck, before I pushed them past the collar and under his shirt and laid them on his shoulder. They touched the skin of his chest, smooth, warm and soft, it happened instinctively, I could not help myself. I would have killed at that moment to touch that skin. I wanted him with every fibre of my body, dear God, I wanted him so badly.</p><p>Schmidt let it happen until suddenly, as if struck by lightening, he stood up and turned away.</p><p>"We should finish the drawing," he whispered, smoothing his shirt with his hands and then reaching for his whiskey glass so that he could drink quickly. But instead of returning to his chair he stopped in front of me and stared at me, his remaining hand clenched into a fist, his eyes big, half fear, half desire.</p><p>"What's wrong with you?" I pulled the sheet off the bed and put it around my shoulders. Then I got up and went to him, took the glass from his hand and put it away. Schmidt reached for the paper, erratic, unsteady movements determined him. Gently I took it away and laid it on the chair. Schmidt avoided my gaze, hiding his tension under a thin mask of self-control, trying to cover up what we both knew. I frowned. "Have I offended you?"</p><p>"No," Schmidt replied vehemently, too vehemently. He turned away from me and fought his emotions, closed his eyes. "You have done nothing to blame yourself for." Then, with more emphasis: "We have done nothing to blame ourselves for." He hesitated, taking a deep breath. "Not yet. Take your things and go, please."</p><p>"You asked me to come to your room."</p><p>"I know. It was a mistake." He smiled in agony. "A moment of weakness."</p><p>"A mistake? What should we blame ourselves for?" I tried to take a step toward him, but Schmidt was driving around. Fear was written all over his face.</p><p>"You know exactly what I mean," he whispered and hesitated before continuing. His voice had taken on a resigned, tired tone. "It's wrong."</p><p>"What's wrong, Erwin?"</p><p>Now he looked up and toward me. Our eyes met, and I felt a pain in my marrow. "To want to sleep with you," Erwin whispered, so softly, as he feared someone was listening at the keyhole.</p><p>"Says who?"</p><p>"Says I." He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. "Society. The law." It raged inside him, so violently it almost caused him physical pain, it was hard to miss. "I have desired you ever since I saw you that night in the atelier." No sooner had he uttered the sentence than he bit his lower lip, as if he had to punish himself for the thought. "It took me all I had not to come over that night and take you right there underneath that easle. Would you even want me?" he asked and his voice sounded tortured. </p><p>I contemplated. "Yes," I noted after a while with a calm tone of voice and shrugged. "I think so. I don't know how it works with men, but we'll manage somehow."</p><p>"Imagine if we got caught."</p><p>"Then what?"</p><p>"You know what happens then?</p><p>I shook my head. "Nothing will happen."</p><p>"You don't know that."</p><p>"Of course I don't. I might slip and break my neck on the way to the atelier tomorrow morning. Maybe next week the Spanish flu will come back, then we'll all die anyway and it won't make any difference. Nobody knows what's gonna happen." I sighed and pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "But it's the middle of the night. As long as we are quiet, no one will disturb us. There's no reason to be afraid."</p><p>We remained silent. With his hands folded in his lap, Erwin sat in front of me and seemed to gradually calm down. Deep, steady breaths lifted and lowered his chest. As he sat there in front of me, struggling to keep his composure, he seemed incredibly fragile. Gently I laid my hand on his blond hair and stroked it, then over his temple, cheek and neck. He let it happen, closed his eyes and clung to me. Everything in him longed for my touch, it was so obvious that it hurt me. If I had been any different, I would have taken my things and left him alone. But in this case...</p><p>"If you were no longer afraid," I said, "what would you do?"</p><p>"When?"</p><p>"Now. Right now."</p><p>Erwin opened his eyes and looked up at me. "I would kiss you," he said in a serious voice. "I would take your cheeks in my hands and kiss you until you thought you were drowning."</p><p>"And then?"</p><p>"You know what then."</p><p>I was silent for a moment. "To be honest, no."</p><p>Surprise flashed across Erwin's face, then understanding. "Haven't you ever-?"</p><p>"I just told you."</p><p>"Yes, but-"</p><p>"With a girl, yes. With a man, no."</p><p>"How old were you again?"</p><p>"Twenty-two."</p><p>A thin smile played around the corner of Erwin's mouth. "So young," he whispered, as if he could hardly believe it. Then he took my hands in his and put a long kiss on the knuckles. Thereupon he looked at them, smiling softly, stroking his thumb over them, again and again. The hands are the sanctuary of every artist it went through my mind.</p><p>"When I first saw you", Erwin whispered, "you were sitting behind your easel as if you did not belong in this world."</p><p>"Do you remember that?"</p><p>"Yes. I don't know what it is, something about your nature, your aura - but it separates you from others."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"Before I understood what happened, I couldn't take my eyes off you. It's been a long time since I've been attracted to someone in this way." He lowered his eyes and suddenly looked devastated. "Since I have allowed myself to be attracted to someone this way. We are living a lonely existence, Levi," he whispered and shook his head sadly. "What on earth has flawed us like this?"</p><p>We looked at each other. There was a helplessness about him that stabbed me in the heart, but it did not deter me, on the contrary. Had I been able to free him at that moment from the torments that filled his heart, I would have done it with gratitude. It was a realisation that surprised me.</p><p>"Get up", I said in a soft voice and Erwin obeyed. "Where does this fear come from?"</p><p>Erwin gave me a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "From life," he whispered. "and no, I do not want to talk about it."</p><p>Inquiringly, I let my gaze glide over his face, again and again, absorbing every detail, no matter how small. It was as if something was shifting between us in this world of ours. Whatever it was, I paid no attention to it. Instead I approached Erwin and let my forehead sink against his chest. Finally I felt his hand on the back of my head. It went through my hair, across the back of my neck. When it reached my cheek, I looked up, saw him. Something in Erwin's gaze changed, it happened all of a sudden, like a switch being flipped, a small action with a big effect.</p><p>"This," he whispered, "must remain our secret. Do you understand? No one must ever know about it. No one. It's a cruel world. It destroys what it cannot understand."</p><p>I nodded. For a moment Erwin stared at me, then, sighing, he bent down, pushed his hand back into my neck and pulled me close. Our lips found each other, touched one another, became one, for a moment only, but it seemed like an eternity to me.</p><p>Greedily I absorbed everything, his taste, his smell, his touch. We parted, gasping for breath, I leapt forward again. So we drank our fill of each other and still we didn't. In the end it was Erwin who grabbed me by the shoulders and led me back to the bed where I sat down, to my old place in the same pose in which Erwin had tried to capture me on paper before. He sank to his knees before me, kissed me and let his fingers slide under the woven fabric of the blanket. I pushed him away.</p><p>"What are you doing?" I breathed against his lips. My breath went in short, irregular strokes. I felt drunk, but it was not wine or whiskey. My hands found their way over Erwin's shoulders, remained there, I secretly feared I would lose him again if I now let go of him. Again we pressed our lips together.</p><p>"Trust me. I won't hurt you", he whispered against me.</p><p>"Promise not to."</p><p>"I do."</p><p>I let him get away with that. With gentle fingers he brushed the blanket from my shoulders. It fell on the sheet behind me, but I hardly noticed. My attention was focused on Erwin's hands, which embraced my chest, his kisses down on my chin, neck and chest. Finally his hands reached my knees. With gentle force he pushed them apart.</p><p>Erwin pressed his lips against the inside of my knee, felt his way forward towards the pelvis, and with every centimeter he covered like this I found myself more restless. Finally Erwin reached out for me and let his fingertips slide over my skin. My hands supported in the sheet, I leaned back.</p><p>"How agitated you are", Erwin whispered, not without fascination, leaning forward and kissing the very spot his fingers had explored before. His lips opened and closed around me. Then his hands gripped my hips and thighs so tightly that I could no longer move. I felt the tip of the tongue on my skin, the heat, the moisture, the regular up and down of foreign lips. It robbed me of my last clear thought, my mind, it was empty, completely stuck in the here and now. Every now and then I could hear myself sighing, then I bit my lower lip, knowing that silence formed both disguise and protection. My fingers searched for the other, stroked his hair, buried themselves in it, holding on to him, as if to make sure that this perfect touch would never end. Yet Erwin finally let go of me, just for a moment, and moistened his fingers. Then he went on, one hand clasped my pelvis, the other found its way between my thighs. Only now did I feel the moisture, then Erwin slipped inside me, with one or two fingers, I didn't know. My flesh began to fight back, but it gave way quickly. I rushed forward; my forehead almost rested on Erwin's hair and his name slipped across my lips, again and again and again. Erwin. Friend of the army.</p><p>"I'm losing it", I brought up between two deep breaths and Erwin immediately let go of me. His gaze touched mine, and he had changed. There was something glassy inside his eyes, it was the look of an animal on the hunt, not willing to compromise. For a moment I wondered if mine was like his, but Erwin leaped forward at that moment, and kissed me again, more raw and greedy than before. It tasted different than at the beginning, a little saltier, and I knew it was up to me.</p><p>In passing, Erwin grabbed my hands and put them on the button-facing of his shirt, began to nestle against his own trousers, with trembling, heavy breaths. Impatiently I opened the shirt and slipped it over his shoulders, so quickly that none of us noticed where it fell to the ground. Each layer of clothing appeared as a wall separating us, and it had to be torn apart as quickly as possible. With a sigh I opened the zipper and my hand slipped into the warmth that awaited me there.</p><p>"God", it escaped me, "you're so hard, I'm afraid you'll break under my fingers."</p><p>"Lie down."</p><p>He pushed me into the pillows and followed me, leaving the rest of his clothes behind, stripping them off as if he had put them on especially for that purpose. I had seen him naked before, but this night everything was different. I lay flat on my back and Erwin bent over me, every muscle strand squeezing through the firm, white skin. Again our lips met and Erwin's pelvis found its way between my thighs. He pressed himself against me, kissed my chin and cheek, then was on me and his breath in my ear. In this way we began to rub against each other, skin on skin, man on man.</p><p>I closed my eyes, closed my arms around him and pressed him against my chest, with a self-evidence, as if this was the normal course of the world, as if I had spent the last twenty-two years of my life amputated, divided into two bodies, and now reunited.</p><p>"Do you like that?" Erwin breathed into my ear and I nodded. "If you just knew how much I'd like to fuck you now."</p><p>"Then do it," I gasp, "come inside me. Come on."</p><p>"No," he returned, forcefully. "Not today."</p><p>He lay completely upon me, and I felt the heaviness of his body on mine, the heat of his flesh. His skin was wet from exertion and his sweat covered him, sweet and tart at the same time. With regular thrusts he moved back and forth, faster and faster, in growing ecstasy, his breath on my lips. When I came, violently and twitching, my hand pressed to my mouth, I could not help but feel anger, that it was over now, that I was forcefully locked out of this realm of ecstatic sensations.</p><p>As if dazed I opened my eyes. Erwin looked at me, his cheeks reddened, his gaze still clouded over; I knew that he absorbed every one of my movements like a hungry man, I myself was no different. Erwin bent over and kissed me, only fleetingly, a mischievous grin on his face.</p><p>"Was it good?", he whispered.</p><p>"It wasn't bad," I replied. Erwin laughed</p><p>"Then help me out, will you? I'm not done yet."</p><p>He lifted himself up, his chest wet and shiny like mine, reached for my hand and guided it between his thighs where he was waiting for me, hard, hot and twitching with excitement. I closed my fingers around him, and began to massage him, in movements at first gently, then faster and faster. My eyes did not move away from Erwin's face, his eyebrows slightly raised and eyes closed, depending on how I touched him. He bit his lower lip, with increasing strength, took my face in his hands and pressed it against his forehead until he melted between my fingers with a surrendering sound. In hot flushes he poured onto my chest, then he collapsed on me as if this had robbed him of his last strength. For a while we remained like this, breathing heavily, damp and sticky, filled with the carefree lightness that sometimes followed such an endeavour. Once we had calmed down, we kissed for one last time.</p><p>Shortly afterwards Erwin pulled open the drawer of his bedside table and took out some cloths with which we cleaned ourselves, only to start all over again shortly afterwards. The night resembled a feverish dream. Whatever it was - we didn't manage to keep our hands off each other. Every time we touched, it increased in intensity. And so it went on for a night that seemed to have lain endlessly across the land, as if the Gods had stopped the passage of time on a whim. In the early morning we lay together, naked, only fleetingly covered by thin white sheets, the air heavy with the smell of lust and smoked.</p><p>"We didn't even look at the sketch at all," I said, put the cigarette down on the ashtray and flipped the blanket back, but Erwin was faster. Before I could get up he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back to him.</p><p>"Is that necessary?" Erwin put the cigarette between his fingers and kissed me. "It's not ready yet."</p><p>"As if I care." With a quiet laugh I wriggled away from his grip, picked up the picture from the floor and climbed back into bed. Erwin pulled me into his arms. After I took his cigarette from the ashtray, I gazed at it. My eyebrows shot up.</p><p>"What the hell is that supposed to be?"</p><p>"What?" Erwin looked at me in surprise. He tapped the paper several times. "Why, you, of course."</p><p>"It doesn't look like me at all." I looked at the picture, which was drawn with soft pencil strokes. It was highly stylized, cool, almost mechanical.</p><p>"Of course it does." Erwin put the cigarette between his lips and pulled the picture out of my hands. "Here." He pointed to a spot on the paper. "This is your nose."</p><p>"That's a triangle."</p><p>"This is your head.</p><p>"This is a circle.</p><p>"And here is your hair.</p><p>"This is a black rectangle, Erwin.</p><p>"Your upper body."</p><p>"Shit, you really were nervous."</p><p>"Levi."</p><p>"Maybe you're just holding it upside down. Here, give it to me." I took the picture out of his hands and turned it around.</p><p>"Now it's upside down."</p><p>"What, really?" Shaking my head, I gave the painting back to him, now leaning, eyes closed, against the back of the bed. "Is that how you see me?", I murmured. "As a robot?"</p><p>"No." I could hear his voice telling me he felt misunderstood. "Those are very dynamic strokes I used."</p><p>"You designed me like other people design buildings," I added with a subtle grin. "Must be the job." I raised my eyes and looked at Erwin. Confused, he looked at the drawing, unaware what he might have done wrong in my eyes.</p><p>"What did you expect, huh?" he finally asked and I shrugged.</p><p>"I don't know. A dull nude drawing, I guess."</p><p>"You think I'm boring?"</p><p>"What? No."</p><p>Erwin started laughing. He dropped the drawing under the bed and pressed a kiss against my temple. "I'll draw you a new one, all right?" he whispered in my hair. "Don't be angry."</p><p>"I'm not angry."</p><p>"Good." He sounded satisfied, left me alone and lay down next to me in the sheets. He looked over to the window. "It's dawn already," he whispered. "What time is it?"</p><p>"Does it matter?" I replied, putting the cigarette out in the ashtray. "Let's do it one last time. Come on."</p><p> </p><p>"I read a book once," Erwin began. He lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling. "I think it was an autobiography."</p><p>"What was it about?"</p><p>"About an English physician during the Napoleonic Wars." Erwin rolled over on his side and reached for my hand. Gently, he intertwined our fingers. "One day a colonel came to his town to spend the summer months there. Against their better judgment, they fell in love. Naturally, that got them into trouble. The colonel was involved in a duel and wounded.</p><p>"What happened to him?"</p><p>"I have no idea." With a melancholy expression Erwin breathed a kiss on my knuckles. "It was an incredibly old edition. The last two hundred pages were missing."</p><p>"What a hassle."</p><p>"Absolutely."</p><p>"Couldn't you get a replacement?"</p><p>"No, a friend gave it to me."</p><p>"What's his name?"</p><p>"Mike. He bought it antiquarian himself. Sometimes you have no choice but to accept the circumstances." With a sigh, Erwin rolled over on his back again and looked at the stuccoed ceiling. He still held my hand. "Though I sometimes itch to find out what would have happened to them. Somehow I find myself very much in the Colonel, you know? He seemed strangely familiar." He gave me a quick look and smiled. "I hope they could find happiness. That wouldn't be a bad thought, would it?"</p><p>"Yes," I murmured and tried to imagine them. "Not a bad thought, really."</p><p> </p><p>"A girl, you said?"</p><p>I, half asleep next to Erwin, opened my eyes. "What?"</p><p>"You had already slept with a girl, but not with a man." Erwin had turned on his side, laid his head on his arm and looked at me from awake, prying eyes. "You said that earlier."</p><p>"Maybe so," I sighed and stroked a few strands from my face. "And?"</p><p>"Tell me about it."</p><p>With a frown, I glanced at him for a moment. "About my first time?"</p><p>"Yes, your first time."</p><p>I snorted. "It will have been the same as yours - unexpected, brief and not very good." We looked at each other and I understood. "Have you never slept with a woman?" I asked and Erwin shook his head.</p><p>"No." He reached out and stroked my cheek. "Never. So: Will you tell me about it? I wonder how it feels like."</p><p>I was silent for a moment and looked up at the ceiling, while I tried to bring back memories that had long since faded from my mind.</p><p>"I was fifteen years old," I finally began, "and my father had died only a few weeks earlier. The whole place was in a kind of trance. My life felt like a dull, unreal dream. One of the neighboring girls had made a habit of paying us regular visits ever since. Her name was Minna, she was five years older than me. We had known each other since childhood and had practically grown up together. One day she came to us. My uncle had taken my mother to the doctor, so I was alone. I was sitting in the courtyard with a pile of potatoes and I was peeling the skin off them with a blunt knife; it is a miracle that I did not cut my finger while doing so. We talked to each other, but I did not give her the attention she deserved, for as I mentioned before, I was busy. Then she took the knife from my hand and put it on the table. She had never seen me go after the ladies, she said, and laughed, whether I was not interested at all? I denied. If I had never looked up a woman's skirt?, she wanted to know. I denied again. She said I was beautiful and that she could change the latter if I wanted to."</p><p>"What did you say?"</p><p>"Nothing. She kissed me and I let her. After a while she unbuttoned my trousers, pulled up her skirts and sat on my lap, in broad daylight, in the open air. If my uncle had caught us, he would have beaten us black and blue - but nothing like that happened. She was warm, soft, smelled good and I came way too fast. As you can see, it was hardly spectacular. After that we met occasionally and slept together. When the war was over, we lost track of each other. She got married, I think."</p><p>"Were you in love with her?"</p><p>I shook my head and began to laugh. "No, I wasn't in love with her."</p><p>"Were you ever in love with a woman?"</p><p>"I guess I've never been in love at all."</p><p>"Never?"</p><p>"Desire is not the same as love." I carefully looked at his body. "I desire you, you know?"</p><p>"I noticed."</p><p>"I don't know what I would have done hadn't you let me touch you tonight. I might as well would have died."</p><p>"Those are big words from someone as young as you are."</p><p>"What about you?"</p><p>"What about me?" He sat up and leaned his back against the back of the bed. "That's not easy to answer", he said.</p><p>"Then make an effort." I raised my eyebrows. "Equal rights for all, those were your words."</p><p>"I was aroused."</p><p>"Then even more so."</p><p>We laughed and then fell quiet. The reluctance was written all over Erwin's face. But after a while he took heart.</p><p>"There was this writer I used to visit during the summers with my family."</p><p>"Was he famous?"</p><p>Erwin nodded. "He lived in a large estate in the country in Brandenburg, surrounded by forests and lakes. There were often visitors from Berlin, and we spent the weekends in their company. I had my first intellectual conversations there. The man was a friend of my father's, and about his age. I liked him. He had a cheerful, friendly nature that made you think you were being seen. We got along well and I trusted him. He was very charismatic, loved the Romans and the Greeks, he could go on about them forever. Constantly he found himself surrounded by a crowd of people. I was very taken with him.</p><p>As I got older, the visits decreased. My father still sent me to see him. I was fifteen when I first spent the summer alone with him. From then on, everything changed."</p><p>"What happened?"</p><p>Erwin smiled. "He said the house was being renovated. The only bedroom that could be used was his. So I slept in his room. We shared the same bed."</p><p>"You weren't suspicious?"</p><p>"No, I wasn't." Erwin frowned and lowered his eyes. "As I said before, I was very fond of him at the time, you see, and I got used to it quickly. The longer I slept there, the closer we grew. He sought my closeness, held me in his arms. One night I woke up because he was stroking my back. I turned around. He began to kiss me. I went for it. Probably I would not have dared to refuse, since he was a friend of my father and I had been brought up to do as I was told. Before I knew what was happening, he had undressed me and was inside me. It hurt, but I liked it. That was my first time."</p><p>He spoke so calmly, so objectively, I didn't know what to say back. All of a sudden, my mouth felt strangely dry.</p><p>"How was it for you?" I asked, and Erwin raised his shoulders barely noticeably.</p><p>"He made sure it felt good. You must know that he was a very experienced lover. From that night on everything went its course. Something inside me knew it wasn't right, but I didn't want to change it. When he called me, I would do as he said. When he wanted me to, I gave in. I was proud to be his lover, for he was a man of rank and name. One evening he gave me cuff links set with precious stones. He said they reminded him of my eyes. From then on he called me his 'aquamarine'.</p><p>Of course, he took great care that nobody knew about our relationship. When visitors came, he always reminded me of the 'little secret' we had to keep and that I could not tell anyone, not even my father. I did not care. On those evenings I began to understand how the wife of a great man must feel and I liked it. His importance seemed to rub off on me.</p><p>For three years, it went on like this. When I was at home, we had no contact. But during the summer months I was his. It was only later that I understood that the eye-level that I thought I had perceived until then was only a product of my imagination. He wouldn't except a No. What he said counted. What I thought to be a request  was actually an order. If I wanted to stay with him, I had to obey him. He wouldn't acknowledge my needs. He saw me as a tool to be used, not as a person.</p><p>In my last year there, things got out of hand. There was a third person there whom he had met during my absence. He turned our relationship into a menage a trois." Erwin ran his tongue across his lower lip. "In every way."</p><p>"Did you do it with them?"</p><p>"Of course I did." Erwin smiled again, but he looked shy. "I learned a lot during that time. It was just before the war began, in August 1914. One evening, he had a glittering party. People came from all over. Close friends, he said. An orgy, that's what it was, and I was the youngest there." Erwin paused.</p><p>"What's wrong?", I asked.</p><p>"I feel ashamed telling you."</p><p>"Don't."</p><p>Erwin took a deep breath. "He made sure I could be taken by anyone who wanted me. Maybe I wanted it, maybe he drugged me, I don't remember. The guests were middle-aged, well-respected people. All eyes were on me. They were intoxicated by my youth, by my freshness, as if it could rub off on them, if only they touched me long enough.</p><p>A few days later my father showed up. One of the servants had sent him a letter underhand, informing him how his son had spent the past summers. He wouldn't look at me. Instead, he spoke to him. They had a fight. I could hear them shouting from the library as far as the stairs. When my father took me home, I knew that everything would be different from now on. Not a word was said about the whole thing. Instead, we kept quiet about it. It went on for several weeks. At a dinner in August, which my father hosted, and at which my former host and lover was sometimes talked about, I defended him from my father. He couldn't bear it. After the guests left, we started to yell at each other. It was inexplicable to him how I could still speak so well of this man after all that had happened, and so he concluded that I had deliberately participated in the events. He asked me whether I had taken pleasure in it. I kept silent, clearly offended, for a moment only, but long enough for my father to understand. Until then, it was the worst day of my life."</p><p>"How did he react?"</p><p>Erwin's fingers were digging into the sheet below us. "For a moment I thought he would hit me, but instead he became very calm. These summers had confused me, he said. It was time to put my five senses back in order. The Kaiser was looking for soldiers. I knew what was expected of me. That was all he said. It was also the last time we spoke in private. Soon after that I volunteered. I wanted to leave home; war seemed the easiest way out."</p><p>He slipped his cigarette between his lips and took some deep breaths. The conversation had exhausted him; it was easy to see. The brightness in his eyes had faded, his features lacked tension. He seemed tired.</p><p>"This man shouldn't have done that", I suddenly said. "To you."</p><p>"Who knows," Erwin replied without looking at me. "Sometimes I wonder which of us was the more defective one. After all, I wanted it. If he asked me today, I would sleep with him again. Maybe I wouldn't even have to give it much thought. It felt good to be touched by him and it was easy for me to give myself to him, despite, or maybe because of the circumstances."</p><p>Without answering, I bit my lower lip. I took the cigarette out of Erwin's hand, smoked on it for a while, then gave it back to him. Everything I had just heard seemed unbearable in the sobriety with which Erwin told me about it.</p><p>"Do you love him?" I asked. Erwin shook his head.</p><p>"Tell me, Levi," he suddenly whispered next to me, "aren't you Catholic?"</p><p>"Yes," I answered, frowning. "What about it?"</p><p>"Doesn't it make you feel guilty?" Erwin gestured to the room, then pointed at us. "All this."</p><p>"No," I replied calmly.</p><p>"No?"</p><p>I shook my head. "God is infallible."</p><p>"So they say."</p><p>"So why should I feel guilty?"</p><p>"You tell me."</p><p>I let himself sink against the back of the chair. "If God is infallible, it means I was born the way God wants me to be, right?"</p><p>"Probably, yes."</p><p>"If that includes getting fucked by blond, blue-eyed architects, please. If we're made in God's image, I guess that's part of God's plan too. He must have had something in mind."</p><p>"You believe in it?"</p><p>"Sometimes yes, sometimes no. It's not as simple as it sounds."</p><p>"What do you mean, it's not as simple as it sounds?"</p><p>"Healthy faith requires doubt. Anything else becomes slightly dogmatic." I put a cigarette between my lips and smoked quietly for a while. "Anyway, lately I feel like I'm losing it all bit by bit. Maybe God has left me long before I left him."</p><p>I put the cigarette out in the ashtray. "But what," Erwin continued after a pause, "if we all come into the world normally?" He looked up at the ceiling and seemed very thoughtful. "Then something happens. An event in childhood. A trauma. Something like that. What if it turns on a switch that makes us want to do this? Then there must be a way to reverse it." He looked at his hands. "It would be possible to rid oneself of these desires and live a decent life. I enjoy being with you, but at the same time all this is driving me crazy. Deep down, I know it's wrong and I can't bear it."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"It's unnatural."</p><p>"Do you fall in love with women?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Then you're a homosexual?"</p><p>"I guess so."</p><p>"Do you believe," I started and stopped for a moment, "that this man made you?"</p><p>"Maybe those impulses would have disappeared if he hadn't fed them," Erwin replied in a low voice. "I do think that he had an influence on my sexual development that should not be underestimated. It's a damage that can probably not be repaired. For many years I fought against it, you must know. Actually, I thought I was on the right track. Then you came along and a fleeting encounter with you was enough to shatter all that certainty with a single blow." He shook his head, slowly, sullenly. "We are damaged people, aren't we?" he whispered in disgust. "God, I wish I could just me normal like anyone else."</p><p>"Erwin." I took his face in my hands and forced him to look at me. "It's not like we're hurting anyone, you understand? With this." I pointed at us, and Erwin looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and appreciation.</p><p>Erwin looked at me. In his eyes shimmered cold, that ruthlessness that could show itself when you knew that doing the right thing meant sacrifice.</p><p>"We damage the society we live in. We destroy the social order. It would be less dramatic if it wasn't an order I believed in, Levi. I stand behind this country and yes, I think I am a patriot. Being part of this war also filled me with pride, I cannot deny that. But look at me, I am a defect patriot, a broken machine. Tell me, what do you do when things no longer serve their purpose?"</p><p>"You fix them."</p><p>"And if they cannot be repaired?"</p><p>I swallowed. "You dispose of them."</p><p>Erwin looked at me. In his eyes shimmered cold, that ruthlessness that could show itself when you knew that doing the right thing meant sacrifice.</p><p>"How can you say such a thing?", I whispered in horror. "There is a reason why we are the way we are. Not only can it be bad, I refuse to see things the way you do. It is not my fault that society is made up of ignorant people who prefer to destroy rather than understand." I paused. "If you could see yourself out of my eyes, you wouldn't talk like that."</p><p>"You're really not afraid," he whispered.</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Never?"</p><p>"Never."</p><p>"You should be."</p><p>"But I don't want to."</p><p>"Why not?</p><p>"Because I can't think when I'm afraid." I stopped. "Were you frightened? Back then, during the war?"</p><p>"Yes, I was afraid."</p><p>"Often?"</p><p>"Always."</p><p>"The veterans say you get used to it."</p><p>"They lie."</p><p>"All of them?"</p><p>"All of 'em."</p><p>"I guess it's a different dimension."</p><p>"Yes", Erwin murmured and closed his eyes. He held my hand so tightly as if I were the anchor that would save him from drowning. Birds greeted the rising sun outside our window. "That must be it."</p>
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<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Late in the morning of the next day I left the hotel through Erwin's window and down the rain gutter. It was the attempt of two sinners to cover up their nightly misdeeds and, fortunately, crowned with success.</p><p>My footsteps took me past the cemetery via the Frauenplan, and when I finally turned into my street, my hands buried in my trouser pockets, the first rays of the day's sun hit me in the face, with that strange hardness that was inherent in them when one had spent a night out and not sleeping.</p><p>Actually I should be tired, I thought. Instead I felt strangely exhilarated, my body light, as if I was dreaming. Erwin's smell seemed to have dug itself into my pores, still adhered to my skin and with every breeze it reminded me of the reality of our actions. When I closed my eyes I still felt him on me, inside me and it did not bother me, on the contrary.</p><p>I had hardly passed the small gate to the inner courtyard of my house when the front door opened and a young woman stepped out. She was wearing a beige, bell-shaped hat, a burgundy red coat and flat, black and white lace-up shoes. Dark red hair stood out from under the brim.</p><p>"Isabelle." I ran my fingers through my hair, which was all messed up. "What are you doing here?"</p><p>"I could ask you the same thing." She hardly looked at me. With eyebrows raised, she stared at me from top to bottom. "Weren't you out with Herr Schmidt yesterday? You didn't come home last night."</p><p>"Yes. We had a lot to talk about."</p><p>It was only now I noticed how tired she looked. Her hair was less neat than usual, and shadows lay under her eyes.</p><p>"Sometimes you'd think winter is coming back." She looked up at the sky. "But I suspect it will be quite warm today. There's not a cloud in sight."</p><p>"I suppose so," I said, following her gaze. Then I looked at her once more. Her movements seemed agitated.</p><p>"Hey." I took a step closer to her. "Is everything okay?"</p><p>She looked around indecisively for a moment, then crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Do you have a moment?" she asked, looking for my glance. "It's about Farlan."</p><p>I offered her coffee, but she refused. Farlan was sleeping in the apartment, she said, the risk of waking him or being heard was too high. We walked around the city and ended up in the park. The sun had settled on the green. Leaves rustled in the wind.</p><p>"Did he ditch you?" I wanted to know. I looked out of the corner of her eye. "He's prone to stupid things, but even he's not that stupid." I shook my head, shoved my hands in my pockets.</p><p>"That's not it." She sighed. Then she remained silent for a while, looking at the ground, the meadows, the fog, before she continued in a low voice: "Don't you think he's been acting strange lately?"</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"He's so exuberant."</p><p>I shrugged. "He just has a lot of energy, Isabelle. He's always been like that. Remember last year's summer party?"</p><p>"Yes, of course," she said fiercely. "But Levi... He hardly sleeps anymore."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"He works all the time, taking notes, reading books."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"I've seen them, his notes, I mean." Once again she sighed. " Sometimes they don't make any sense at all. He forgets to eat, drink, walks around in the same clothes for days. All the time he talks about this portfolio. When he's around, he seems to be everywhere but with me."</p><p>I lowered my gaze. Of course, all this hadn't escaped me, and yes, I too was secretly worried. These behaviours were not unknown to me, but it had been years since I had last seen them. "What do you think I can do about it?", I asked. "I can't very well tie him up at home."</p><p>"Keep an eye on him, will you? I know it's not easy. But if you could at least make sure he's eating, I'm sure he'd be helped."</p><p>"He's home, you say?"</p><p>"Yes. He's asleep now. Must be the first time in days."</p><p>I nodded. There was something deliberate about it. "I'll check on him when I get home. That's all I can do. At best, it'll fade away over the next few weeks."</p><p>"And if not?"</p><p>"We'll see what happens then."</p><p>"Thank you." She pulled me into her arms and pressed me against her chest. Hesitantly, I returned her embrace. The fabric of her coat felt pleasantly warm. When she let go of me, her eyes touched my clothes and my encrusted face for the first time since we had met. My eye had become quite swollen. She frowned. "My goodness, Levi," she cried, "what happened to you?" Her look brushed across my face. "And with your eye?"</p><p>"I got roughed up by some brown shirts yesterday. On my way to the theatre. It was nothing."</p><p>"But you are hurt."</p><p>"Yes." I sighed and brushed my hair behind my ear. "I know."</p>
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<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When I opened the door to the apartment, I found it in silence. The kitchen lay in the dull twilight of the window facing north. There were some used cups in the sink, but apart from that it was surprisingly tidy. The door to Farlan's room was open a crack. I approached and opened it a little more, peered inside and found Farlan on the bed. He was still fully dressed, wearing beige trousers and a dark red sweater. The sleeves of his shirt he had rolled up. Completely stretched out he lay there, surrounded by books and notebooks, like a corpse in a coffin, and that alone was enough to send a shiver down my spine.</p><p>I entered the room, careful not to make a sound, and sat down on the bed with Farlan. An open book rested on his chest, a burnt cigarette stuck between his fingers. I took both of them off him and put them aside. Then he became restless and the eyes behind his eyelids began to wander back and forth. The narrow face distorted and sounds of reluctance escaped Farlan. Gently I laid my hand on his chest. It worked; he calmed down. Even now, in his sleep, he seemed changed and for a moment I wondered if he didn't feel bonier than usual.</p><p>I thought of the day we met, three years had passed since we met. I had been standing in the atelier like a lost person, having just arrived at the Bauhaus. Out of nowhere, Farlan had appeared next to me and got me involved in a conversation ("Help me out, those idiots back there have no idea. Impressionism as a pioneer of modernism, what's your opinion on that?"). He hadn't left my side since then. How many times had we helped each other out of a jam, bridged financial difficulties, spent long nights together? It had been him who had shown me how to live. In return, I had formed the anchor that had prevented Farlan from floating away, boring, maybe, but just as important.</p><p>Was I still? I didn't know anymore. Ever since Erwin had shown up, everything had changed. Was I still able to keep Farlan on the ground?</p><p>With the tenderness of a friend, I stroked Farlan's forehead and hair. Then I took a cover from the floor, folded it up and covered him with it. I felt as if a soft sigh left his lips. One last time I looked at him, then I left his room and prepared for the service.</p>
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<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I had no interest in the sermon of the day. However, at the end of the service, during the farewell, the need to go to confession arose in me once again. Erwin's smell still stuck to me, and with it the sin I had committed. Did the others present notice how I stank? My alleged crime was as fresh as this.</p><p>However, when I looked at the priest standing at the entrance of the church, in his sublime shape, with his striking features, the water blue eyes and golden-blond hair, when I shook his hand and our eyes met, I was overcome with a twitch and the need to confess died away. For a moment I paused and looked into his face. With an expression that was difficult to interpret he looked back until the people around us began to look at each other out of the corner of their eyes. So I let him go and with the same unchanging words he let me out into the world. He had given me the same feeling as Erwin that night and I did not understand why.</p><p>On Monday this feeling did not leave my side either. I spent most of my time in the print shop and made drafts for the posters of the Midsummer Festival. Eld and Gunther helped out. Farlan, who was needed in the mural that day, was missing. After my visit to his room, he had completely slept through Sunday and had only appeared in the communal kitchen towards evening. He still looked exhausted, although less so than the days before. It seemed as if his body was forcibly taking back what Farlan had denied him. It couldn't hurt, I thought and let him do it.</p><p>That day my thoughts wandered away again and again, to Erwin and the night we had spent together. Whenever a blond man entered the print shop, I hoped it was him. But he never came. At some point I became angry that I had not asked him if or when we would see each other again. These were feelings that were new to me, but I did not question them. They felt good, what did I care about the rest?</p><p>For lunch we left the workshop, took our sandwiches with us and went out into the garden. Isabelle had been right. The heat had been hanging over the city for several days now. The summer had arrived. After all, while in the poorly ventilated workshops the sweat was running down on us, a fresh breeze was blowing out here.</p><p>Eld and Gunther were in good spirits.They told me that Petra spoke of me in high tones, which I didn't understand because we had hardly met each other twice before.</p><p>Eld wanted to know what it had been like at the theater. I called the play a masterpiece of vulgarity, and we laughed. Both Gunther and Eld had already heard about it through third parties; Gunther even slapped his leg with his flat hand and claimed that he had given his right arm to see the play, but it was sold out, what could one do?</p><p>"But tell me", Gunther suddenly turned to me, "when will he sit for us again? Schmidt, I mean. He was a wonderful model, easy to draw."</p><p>"How should I know?" I bit my sandwich.</p><p>"Well, you seem to have the best connection to him, or so Farlan says. You work for him? If so, maybe you can find us some employment, too."</p><p>"Bullshit." I sounded testy. "He was just helping out. What the hell makes you think he'd do it again? God knows this man has better things to do than pose naked in front of a bunch of students."</p><p>"Besides, that whole thing happened weeks ago," Eld added, mouth full.</p><p>"Finish your chewing," I growled.</p><p>"You'd better watch your tone," Gunther staggered. "Has the heat burned your brain?"</p><p>"It hasn't," I replied, "but so much openly displayed stupidity offends me, that's all."</p><p>Eld began to laugh. "Schmidt won't be in this week anyway." Once again he bit his sandwich and chewed for a while. I frowned.</p><p>"Why?" Gunther and I asked at the same time.</p><p>"Had to go to Leipzig on business, said Feininger. Just picked it up in passing, don't ask me for details. Sounds like they're on to something bigger, though. Didn't he tell you?"</p><p>"No." I was thinking about our conversation in the park. He had mentioned the project itself, but the trip--</p><p>I wrapped the rest of the bread in the wax paper I had brought with me and stood up. "I'm going in," I said in a cool tone of voice. I had lost my appetite, and with it the exhilarating lightness that had followed me since that night. "See you later. "</p>
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<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It took me until the early evening before I was satisfied with the drafts I had started. I made some test prints, showed them to Gunther and Eld, packed my things and went to work. In addition to my job in a grocery store, I catalogued files in the local archives, a stupid job, but it was a good deal of money and a free schedule. Two hours later, the heat had now reached an unbearable humidity, I made a detour to the park.I wasn't hungry at that temperature, and I didn't feel like going home since our small apartment was so cramped.</p><p>The jacket only loosely thrown over the shoulders, under it a plain white shirt without vest, I soon landed on a hill from which I could comfortably overlook the park. On the right hand side there was a pretty building from the late 18th century, only called the Roman House by everybody, a former country estate of the once resident duke. In the shadow of the canopy I looked for a quiet place and smoked. In the meantime it was dawning. The moon was already round and full in the sky. Its light obscured the still comparatively weak light of the stars.</p><p>Not long before I saw two figures in the valley of the otherwise deserted park, young women on their way back from somewhere else. They were chatting and flirting, fooling around and teasing each other, two people at the zenith of their youth. Their steps led them to the nearby river. There they undressed and refreshed themselves in the passing water. Motionless, leaning with my back against one of the Corinthian columns of the porch, I watched and quickly recognized Petra among them, her milk-white skin and slender figure. All the way up to me their laughter, exuberant and cheerful, the murmur of the water with which they splashed each other could be heard. Minutes later, the enchantment was over.</p><p>The two climbed out of the water and dressed, said goodbye to each other and went their separate ways. The former soon disappeared into the darkness of the beaten path; Petra, on the other hand, headed for a staircase that soon led past my position in winding paths.</p><p>She passed the house just as I was lighting a second cigarette. Startled by the sound of the lighter, she stopped and turned around, slowly, as if she was afraid of an attack. For a moment it was as if I saw fear flaring up in her face, just for a moment, then she recognized me.</p><p>"Levi." She breathed easier. "Don't scare me like that. For a second I thought it was my father."</p><p>"Would that be good or bad?" I tucked the cigarette between my lips and took a drag. Then she approached me in slow, smooth steps, her pelvis swaying slightly to and fro. She stopped right in front of me.</p><p>"Give me one too", she breathed, her head slightly raised, a smile on her lips. I complied with her wish, and also gave her a light. We smoked together. I casually glanced over her figure. Her body was still glistening wet in the fading evening light and her forms pressed through the sometimes translucent white summer dress, narrow hips and small, firm breasts.</p><p>"Why are you here?" she finally asked.</p><p>"Sometimes the girls come here to bathe," I said calmly, without looking at her. "Then I watch."</p><p>I could hear her laughing, and that surprised me. "That's very naughty of you," she grinned.</p><p>"Perhaps. But it's a public place." I tilted my head to one side and looked at her. She looked back at me, unmoved.</p><p>"Say, Levi," she went on, "will you walk me home? It's already dark, and women shouldn't be out alone at this hour, don't you think?"</p><p>One last time I puffed on my cigarette, then I flicked it in the sand. "Sure," I said, and got away from the pillar. "Let's go."</p>
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<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Remember the summer festival last year?" She had hooked into me. Together we walked the path she set. Until then we had kept quiet most of the time and I felt her body against mine. She felt soft, softer than Erwin and her smell was different, more earthy, she smelled of nature, forest and water, in between the sweetish remains of a perfume applied in the morning and sweat. Of course I remembered. Farlan had dragged me there against my will. It had been an evening in inner emigration; seldom before had I felt so lonely amongst people.</p><p>"Farlan was quite drunk", she continued and I could tell from the sound of her voice that she was smiling. "At some point he climbed onto the table and fell, knocking over everything, the place settings, glasses, bottles, even the tablecloth. It was a complete mess."</p><p>"Yes, it was." I couldn't help smiling. "Gropius and Klee were the only ones whose glasses didn't land on the floor. Shortly after that incident, I brought Farlan home. There he had slept off his drunkenness while I silently read a book - a profitable development for both of us.</p><p>"Everyone was very excited about Farlan's behaviour. Not you." She laughed. It sounded bright and cheerful, warm as the sun on a spring morning. "You sat quietly. There was this notebook you brought with you, and you just kept writing in it as if nothing had happened."</p><p>" Drew."</p><p>"Pardon me?"</p><p>"It was a sketchbook. I drew."</p><p>I briefly tried to recall the guests from back then, but to no avail.</p><p>"At the time, I couldn't stop wondering what you were writing." She shifted her weight against my shoulder. "But you were so distant that night. It was impossible to engage you in conversation."</p><p>"We spoke, then"?</p><p>"Briefly." She started laughing again. "At first I thought you couldn't stand me, until one day Isabelle remarked you were always so reserved at first. When I saw you in the bar the other day, I thought, What the hell? Try it again. And look, this time it worked." She raised her head and looked up at me, but when our eyes met, she blushed and quickly turned away. "I talk too much," she murmured. "What must you think of me now?"</p><p>"Nothing bad, anyway," I returned and she smiled.</p><p>"Really? I'm glad."</p><p>"Did you go with Isabelle?"</p><p>"No. With Eld and Oulo."</p><p>I raised my eyebrows and stared into the distance, lost in thought.</p><p>"You don't remember."</p><p>"To be honest, no." I gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm not good with crowds."</p><p>"Me neither." She let go of me and walked a few steps forward, then turned and stretched her arms up in the sky."What are men compared to rocks and mountains?" she quoted a line that was familiar to me, though I didn't know how. Then she pointed to the starry sky, to the trees that surrounded us. "I feel more alive when I'm not surrounded by people all the time. When it's quiet."</p><p>"When the mind can breathe."</p><p>She looked at me and smiled. "Yes, that's it. You know, sometimes I feel like all of nature has a soul and we're just a tiny part of it. When I look at it that way, everything becomes a part of myself and there's nothing to be afraid of anymore. We are all connected." She paused for a moment, then looked at me with a certain embarrassment. "It's comforting, I think, but it probably sounds strange to others." She laughed, but this time it sounded uncertain. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."</p><p>"Your family..."</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>"Still in Sweden?"</p><p>She nodded. "It was only Oulo who was supposed to leave. But I managed to steal myself from the house when he left. He didn't disagree with me. Probably he was secretly relieved about the company. My father, on the other hand, was furious. He's a patriarch, you know? Mother could hardly keep him from coming after us."</p><p>"I see."</p><p>"He would have preferred I had married. He made Oulo promise to keep an eye on me. He tries very hard, but sometimes he seems like a watchdog." With a sigh, she hitched herself back to me. We left the park and turned into a narrow street. "You live with Farlan, don't you?"</p><p>"Yes, I do." And with Isabelle, I thought, but I didn't say it.</p><p>"How was it with you? Didn't your family mind you being a poor art student?"</p><p>"No." I shook my head. "It took three days before anyone even noticed I was gone."</p><p>"Three days?" There was a sound, this soft, dropping hiss that was produced when someone was so surprised as to suck air into their lungs. "And then?"</p><p>"My uncle was at the door, trying to get me home."</p><p>"How did he find you?"</p><p>"I left a note on the kitchen table." I shrugged. "But it's okay. We negotiated an agreement and he bailed."</p><p>"That's very generous of him."</p><p>I laughed. "No, it's not," I said. "He depends on me, that's all."</p><p>"What's the deal?"</p><p>We stopped in front of a house. It was an old building, plain, beige paint, solid construction.</p><p>"Is it here?" I asked and she nodded. The light was on upstairs. For a moment I looked at the window, then, suddenly, I grabbed my forehead. "The handkerchief," I sighed.</p><p>"What about it?"</p><p>"It's washed and pressed. I could have given it to you."</p><p>"It doesn't matter." She let go of me and crossed her arms behind her back. "Next time, okay?"</p><p>I nodded, then turned and walked away. Less than five steps later, her voice resounded behind me. She called my name and I stopped.</p><p>"What is it?", I asked.</p><p>She hesitated. Her small, delicate hands clenched into fists. "Are you taking someone to the Midsummer Festival?"</p><p>" Farlan and Isabelle, I guess," I replied stunned. A smile flitted across her face.</p><p>"Would you like to go with me?"</p><p>"To the Festival?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>I frowned. "I'll see you there anyway," I replied reluctantly, "so why bother?"</p><p>At that moment the window above us was opened and a young man leaned out. Dark blond, curly hair hung tangled in his face. Although he was wearing a vest, he had unbuttoned it, the shirt sleeves were rolled up to above the elbows.</p><p>"Petra!", he shouted, then noticed me and his eyes darkened. As he continued speaking, he switched to Swedish. His voice sounded aggressive and loud. Petra, who had previously interacted so gently with me, suddenly seemed different. It went back and forth, they nagged at each other with increasing fury and rage, until finally Oulo slammed the window loudly.</p><p>"What's wrong?" I asked. Petra waved.</p><p>"He's angry because I'm late," she murmured, "a watchdog, I told you. It's awful. In truth, he just wants someone to put dinner on his table, like all men. No offence." She pulled the front door key from her skirt pocket. "Anyway, I should go." She hugged me goodbye and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "See you soon, Levi. Thanks for bringing me home."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And here we are, with a new batch of new chapters. I hope you've all had a good start to the new year and have managed to avoid Corona so far. I'm aware that I'm making you wait quite a while with the uploads. I guess the times when I could write all day are simply over. When I think about the fact that I sketched out Lend me your Summer and rewrote it in one year, translated it completely and uploaded it the following year, I get a little nostalgic. Well, as someone who is working with full responsibility as a teacher, it just doesn't work out any more. The impact that stress can have on the ability to be creative should not be underestimated.I guess that's just the way of the world. Let's see what happens when we settle down and have children :') At the moment, my passion for chess is also stealing a lot of my time. Have you watched the Queen's Gambit? I really liked it! So dear ones, stay safe and sound. I hope I will be able to update again soon. See you then!</p><p>(Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>hello and welcome back! i hope you're all still healthy and happy, at least as much as possible during those strange times. the scene at the end of this chapter is something i wrote in january or february 2019, and it's still one of my favourite parts of this fic. i like the enthusiasm of people around 20, when they just start college and want to take over the world. i adore their hunger for life. i'm glad i could sketch it down here. as usually i will update 3-4 chapters at a bunch today, so stay tuned for more!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The following week turned out to be strangely uneventful. Although I finished the posters for the Midsummer Festival with the help of the others, I was not happy about it. To be honest, the hustle and bustle did not concern me very much. Everything seemed strange to me, especially to myself. I was filled with an emptiness that made me restless and that made me neither sleep nor eat or feel joy. When I thought of Erwin, uneasiness grew in me. Now and then, on my way home from school or work, my way led me past the hotel as if by magic. Then I stopped and looked up, searching with my gaze for the window of the room behind whose glass he lived. I wondered whether Erwin was already back and whether the lights I could see there at night belonged to him.</p><p>Of course I didn't tell anyone about it. How was it possible that someone I only knew briefly would not want to get out of my mind? I had never given my affections easily. Even Farlan had been rejected by me time and time again in the beginning (to this day I am amazed at the patience he had shown). Erwin on the other hand had effortlessly defied my inner walls. It suited him.</p><p>Sometimes I found myself sketching and pausing at the atelier's worktable, my gaze wandering to the door, hoping that Erwin would suddenly and as if from nowhere enter the room. I was aware of the ridiculousness of my thoughts. Then there was the priest, who seemed to look more and more like Erwin with every church visit. Did I not look suspicious, how I cowered there in my bench and dissected him with glances? I found myself increasingly anxious, whenever our paths crossed. It was a distress.</p><p>One week ended and another began. From time to time I tried to make sketches for my graduation portfolio, but the still missing concept usually made me lay the pen down quickly. It was frustrating. Every line seemed out of place. Not only once did a sketchbook with a pencil end up in a corner of my room, but only because I felt that burning it in the oven was too dramatic.</p><p>Instead of working, I went for walks more and more often, wandering aimlessly around, trapped inside, like an animal in a zoo, only my bars were of an invisible kind. That Farlan had found his energy again didn't make it any easier. He was acting more inconsistent and restless than before. When I entered the apartment, I usually found him bent over concept papers, a cigarette between his lips, a cup of coffee in his hand. As agreed with Isabelle, I tried to make sure he ate enough, but apart from that, the limits of my possibilities soon became apparent. He looked cheerful, and as long as that was the case, it couldn't be that bad.</p><p>On Thursday, Eld and Gunther visited him; they helped Farlan to choose motifs for his proposed project, or at least that was the excuse they used to go out early in the evening, a few bottles of liquor included. I still had no idea what exactly Farlan was working on: he still refused to let me in on the details.</p><p>If at the beginning it was still easy for me to ignore noise and laughter, locked up in my room, bent over my drawing material, the limit of my patience was finally reached with the sound of breaking dishes in the next room. Unnerved, I put the pencil down and walked over quickly, crossing the kitchen before ripping the door open with force. Whatever had been going on there, it stopped at once.</p><p>"You're too loud," I said to them. "Do you know what time it is?" Only now did I take note of the scene that stretched out in front of me. Suddenly the anger disappeared from my face.</p><p>The room looked as if a Titan had shaken everything from the shelves in a flash. They had pushed Farlan's bed against the wall next to the door. At the opposite end, in a cleared corner, Eld sat with his back to them, in front of a canvas screen. He wore a white overcoat. An old-fashioned pipe was stuck between his lips, above it an artificial, glued-on moustache. Gunther sat on the bed, a bottle of cognac in one, a full glass in the other hand, with an enraptured look, as if he did not really belong there. Farlan was lying on the floor, his upper body exposed, his camera firmly clasped. Right next to him I found the reason for the noise: in an attempt to throw himself on the floor, Farlan must have knocked a bottle that had served as a candlestick off the pedestal and shattered it.</p><p>"What the hell is this place?" I brought up with difficulty.</p><p>"Artist still life," Farlan replied, lost in thought, and with deft fingers adjusted the lens of his camera.</p><p>"Meta-art." Eld laughed.</p><p>"Nonsense." I gazed back and forth between them in disbelief, then pointed to the only dim light bulb on the ceiling. "It's much too dark in here. It's not gonna work."</p><p>"You're full of crap," Farlan grumbled between clenched teeth.</p><p>"You're wasting your film."</p><p>"Lemme do it." Farlan sat up. "Are you the photographer or am I?"</p><p>"Is this for your graduation piece?"</p><p>Farlan started smiling. "Maybe," he said in a conspiratorial tone, then he laid back on the floor and took another look at Eld.</p><p>"But you're in the mural." I shook my head. "The one has nothing to do with the other. Why are you taking photos?"</p><p>"Because."</p><p>"Tell me what's going on, for God's sake."</p><p>"Never!" Farlan crawled past the broken glass, closer to Eld.</p><p>"Did you at least speak to Kandinsky about what you are up to?"</p><p>"Oh, poppycock," Farlan swung away and pressed the camera against his face. "Now, let me work. You're disturbing my creative flow."</p><p>"Jesus Christ." With a disparaging click of my tongue I crossed my arms in front of my chest and turned to Gunther on the bed. "Do you know what he's up to?"</p><p>"Nay," he returned, filled a glass with cognac and with a quick movement tipped it down his throat. Judging by the color of his cheeks, it wasn't the first.</p><p>"You are useless and unhelpful," I said.</p><p>"Damn it, Levi!" cried Gunther and slammed the glass on a wine crate next to Farlan's bed. "Let the guy do his job, you're not his mother."</p><p>Everyone laughed. Not me.</p><p>"Do whatever you want." Shaking my head, I turned away when Farlan yanked the camera away from my face and shot up.</p><p>"Stop!" he yelled so loud, the others jumped. I didn't know if he'd been drinking, but he looked like he had. "Where are you going?"</p><p>"Out," I replied turned to leave, but before I could continue, Eld had already slammed the door shut behind me.</p>
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<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a mild evening and almost too warm in the jacket I had taken with me on the way out. I roamed the town, as I had done so often before during the past days. Only now and then I stopped to greet a cat that crossed my path; some let me pet them before they disappeared into the darkness with a purring sound of farewell.</p>
<p>The slowly awakening summer had not only seized me. The streets at night were full of people, here and there members of political organisations, students and nocturnal drunkards.I had avoided the brown shirts since the incident; still the haemathoma in the form of a pale yellow shadow adorned my eye. Most of them were not sober. Their laughter and jeering echoed back to me from the surrounding walls of the house.</p>
<p>My way led me past the Lichtspielhaus, an inconspicuous new building with modern, illuminated signs above the doors. According to the billboard, they showed films there until late into the night, and so the small window where you could buy your tickets was still occupied. We used to come here often, I thought. When had we stopped doing that? With my hands buried in my jacket pockets, I looked at the front of the house for a while before continuing my way towards the market.</p>
<p>When I arrived there, my steps magically led me to the front of the hotel. Once again I looked up at it, looked at the rain gutter, the ivy and the small window through which I had disappeared at that time. Meanwhile the memory of that night seemed unreal to me. It had long since begun to fade. My longing for Erwin gave way, bit by bit, to a bitter indifference. Probably I had attached too much importance to the matter. I was probably unimportant to Erwin. Whatever it was - it was Erwin's problem, not mine.</p>
<p>I strolled past the castle towards the park. It was darker here than in the rest of the city. Black and bluish the formed nature stretched out before me. Crickets chirped, occasionally an owl whistled its song. The river splashed in the background. Apart from that it was quiet. Out here the temperatures were lower, something I secretly welcomed.</p>
<p>Not far from the castle there was a stone bridge over the river, but I avoided it and walked along the riverbank, my eyes fixed on the faraway library, until there was nothing but darkness around me. Here I stopped and looked up to the sky, hidden in the thicket of the plants surrounding me, accompanied only by the murmur of the river. Stars stretched above me, endless in number and age, milky white dots in the all devouring black.</p>
<p>Then something hit me in the head. I groped for my forehead, looked at my fingertips, surprised and amazed at the same time. They were wet and shiny. Rain? Once more I looked up. Not a cloud in sight. Then it hit me from behind, this time on my jacket, and I spun around. Now it hit my face, a jet of water, no stronger than a breeze in a rain shower, but unexpected enough to make me stagger back a few steps. I wiped the moisture from my eyes with the back of my hand, my lips pressed together in annoyance, when a laugh resounded in the darkness, not far from me. I looked at the source of the sound in bewilderment - and shook my head.</p>
<p>"Erwin."</p>
<p>On a park bench, barely two meters away, he sat and grinned at me through the darkness. He was wearing a simple, probably beige linen suit, shirt and tie. Next to him, on the seat, I discovered a straw hat. In his hand something shone faintly in the light of the stars.</p>
<p>"What have you got there?" I nodded, referring to the object in his hand. But instead of answering, Erwin pointed it at me and fired again. This time it hit me in the chest.</p>
<p>"A water pistol." The grin on his face widened. He stood up, approached me and bent down to me until his lips were close to my ear. "I missed you," he whispered and let his temple sink against mine. Silently I closed my eyes, inhaled his scent, felt the warmth and leaned against him after I had begun to feel safe.</p>
<p>"You were in Leipzig?" I whispered.</p>
<p>"Yes." Erwin detached himself from me, embraced my shoulders and looked at me with a mild smile. "There were some organisational things we had to sort out." The smile grew wider, but I didn't smile back, and it seemed to unsettle him. "The little details of the plan are best discussed in person, so I went myself." Gently, his eyes wandered across my face. "You are angry with me."</p>
<p>I shook my head. "No." But it sounded unconvincing. "Why didn't you say anything? Everyone knew but me."</p>
<p>"Really?" Erwin frowned. "It was a spontaneous decision. Had I known, I would have told you."</p>
<p>"You could have left me a message."</p>
<p>" With whom? At the secretary's office? Gropius himself?" Erwin looked at me with a piercing look. "That would have been unusual, if not suspicious, don't you think?" I shrugged. Then Erwin took my face in his hands and forced me to look at him. Finally, insight crept into his gaze, and with it, the mischief. "You were afraid I'd forgotten you," he said, not without satisfaction in his voice.</p>
<p>"Nonsense." I shed his touch and turned to the side. Full of suspicion I stared at him in the darkness, looking for something that would expose him as a liar, but the spell was broken. Erwin knew that he was right and secretly I knew it too. "How was Leipzig?"</p>
<p>"Boring." Erwin shrugged, the pistol still in his hand. With a laconic movement, he aimed at a bush not far from us and fired. "A lot to do, not much time. I'm glad I'm back." The corners of his mouth embraced a smile. "How was Weimar in my absence? What did I miss?"</p>
<p>"Nothing. I've been pretty busy." I paused. "Or rather, let's say I tried. Busy, that is, and not much time, as you are." Then I let my arms down. "I'm glad you're back," I added reluctantly. We exchanged a glance, then I approached him and took the water pistol out of his hand.</p>
<p>"Where did you get it from?"</p>
<p>"From a toy store near Leipzig Station. I wanted to have it wrapped for you, but well." He raised his hands apologetically. "Here we are."</p>
<p>"What?" My voice sounded dumbfounded. Holding the gun in my hands, I alternately looked back and forth between it and Erwin. "It's for me?"</p>
<p>"A little souvenir from the Paris of the East," he grinned.</p>
<p>"You didn't have to do this."</p>
<p>"I know."</p>
<p>Gently, his fingers slipped across the shiny metal. It was small, not very detailed and made of tin, a toy. As you swayed it back and forth, you could hear the water inside gurgling softly. Following a sudden impulse, I pointed it at Erwin and pulled the trigger.</p>
<p>"Take this." We laughed. Muttering thanks, I fired a few more times around, into the air, against trees, onto the grass. For a moment, a taste of my childhood filled my heart. "Farlan will love it. He's a brat beyond compare."</p>
<p>"I'm glad," Erwin replied and smiled. He seemed lost in thought, almost dreamy. The faint light of the stars made him look pale beyond belief, only his hair shimmered golden in the darkness.</p>
<p>"About what?"</p>
<p>Erwin pointed to the gun. "You like it." The smile grew wider. "I'm a lucky fool."</p>
<p>We looked at each other and I wanted to kiss him. Erwin seemed so sincere and pure at that moment, so honest in his feelings for me.</p>
<p>"Why did you come here?" Erwin wanted to know.</p>
<p>"My roommates are tearing up the apartment. I couldn't hear myself think. What about you?"</p>
<p>Erwin nodded up to the sky. "The stars," he said then, and his voice sounded very soft. "You can't see them anywhere better than here in the park. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to think of the most skillful way to get the pistol to you."</p>
<p>I put it in my pocket and looked up at the sky once more. Erwin followed my example. For a while we looked at the stars, and nobody spoke.</p>
<p>"You know", I finally broke the silence, "they're showing films all night long in the movie theater today."</p>
<p>"They do?"</p>
<p>I nodded. Out of the corner of my eye, I looked at Erwin. "Are you going? To the cinema, I mean."</p>
<p>"Occasionally. Mostly in Leipzig. I haven't had time here.</p>
<p>"I see. I put my hands in my pockets. Without me noticing, they were all clenched in fists. "I used to go often with Farlan and the others," I continued, "but they had to force me."</p>
<p>"Is that so?" Erwin seemed surprised.</p>
<p>"Yes." He reached out to me. Gently, like a gust of wind, his fingertips slipped across my upper arm, then they moved away. "What are you gonna do now?"</p>
<p>"Nothing. I was almost on my way back when you crossed my path." Erwin laughed. "A fortunate coincidence, one might think."</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>We nodded at each other, then fell silent again. Finally I grabbed him by the upper arm.</p>
<p>"Let's go," I said.</p>
<p>"Where to?"</p>
<p>"To the cinema."</p>
<p>"Now?"</p>
<p>"When else?" I pulled out the pistol and pointed it at Erwin. "Come on." It sounded cheerful. "You pay."</p>
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<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Chapter 31</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cinema had only one performance hall, but it was well attended despite the late hour. Unnoticed by the others, we looked for a seat in the last row. My heart beat faster with excitement. My last visit here had been a long time ago, but the impressions and smells were the same. The air was cool and humid, a little stuffy, but not unpleasant. Shaky black and white pictures flickered across a screen, now and then interrupted by written notes on what was happening. To the left of it was a piano, electrically illuminated, at which a pianist was sitting and improvising to match the events on the screen, sometimes cheerful, sometimes sad, but never without exuberance. It was the last performance of the evening; the film itself had just begun. It was more cheerful and detached than in the theatre. Sometimes I could hear people talking. In the theatre it was hard to imagine coming late or even leaving earlier - but here it was possible and nobody bothered.</p><p>During the film we hardly spoke. The longer we sat there, next to each other, so close that I could feel the warmth of him, the harder it was for me to concentrate. After a while Erwin reached out his hand and grabbed mine, carefully interweaving our fingers together, careful so that no one saw us. A tingling sensation spread in my chest, something that soon gave way to a feeling of intimate connection. As if stunned, I looked at our intertwined fingers, then I looked at Erwin and discovered in his face a silent satisfaction about unexpectedly raised courage.</p><p>That night Erwin took me back to his place. His home was no longer in that chic hotel at the market. In the meantime they had found him a small apartment, not far from the Frauenplan, old in substance but modern in furnishings. None of it belonged to him, he said, it was a furnished apartment that they had rented him, but he liked it.</p><p>That was all we spoke. Soon Erwin pulled me into his arms and before I knew what was happening, I found myself in his bed, naked, him above me, his lips on every imaginable part of my body, while I wrapped my arms around him, pressed him against me, held tight as drowning people use to do. Only now did I realize how much I had missed Erwin in those few days, how incomplete I had felt without his smell, all that time, without knowing it, without understanding how the sheer existence of someone else could make one so drunk.</p><p>Afterwards Erwin held me in his arms, my head resting on his chest, my fingertips gliding again and again over the smooth, white skin. Who knew where exactly our clothes lay scattered now; it didn't interest me, it wasn't important, a sheet covered us, that was enough. It felt good to be here. Could I have increased my happiness at that moment? I doubted it.</p><p>"Why did you become an architect?" I whispered, and Erwin tensed up under me.</p><p>"You already asked me that."</p><p>"I know. But your answer was vague. You promised a friend?"</p><p>"That's right."</p><p>"How did you know each other?"</p><p>"From the war. We were in the same regiment."</p><p>"What was his name?"</p><p>"Felix." Erwin stopped for a moment. "It means 'the lucky man', did you know that?"</p><p>"No." I looked at him. He seemed serious, almost lost in thought. "Did it do him any good?"</p><p>"Pardon?"</p><p>"Is he lucky in life?"</p><p>But instead of answering, Erwin pulled me closer to his chest and said nothing. Strong, firm arms held me close, as if Erwin secretly feared I might be lost to him otherwise.</p><p>"The scar on your forehead." Carefully, I let my fingertips slide over it. "Is it from the war too?"</p><p>"No." Next to me, Erwin took a deep breath. "Let's not talk about it. Why do you want to bring up what has long since passed?"</p><p>A thousand questions burned on my lips, but I respected his wish and let go. Cuddled up in his arms, I looked around, looked at the apartment, the furniture, the few private objects Erwin had scattered here and there. The signs stood for permanence. A hotel room was something temporary. A furnished apartment on the other hand was not.</p><p>"This time you'll stay longer in Weimar?", I asked, referring to the apartment. Erwin nodded. Then he pressed a kiss against my forehead.</p><p>"Probably until the end of the year," he whispered and I could hear him smiling.</p><p>"Probably?" I pulled my head away from his chest and looked for his gaze.</p><p>"You never know how long a project will take. My contract only runs until the end of the year."</p><p>My hand, which had previously touched Erwin's chest, moved to his neck and pulled him towards me. I kissed him on the lips with emphasis and dominance. When I separated from him, Erwin's cheeks gleamed reddishly.</p><p>"Promise me you'll stay," I whispered. We looked at each other, and Erwin seemed surprised at the seriousness of my tone of voice. Soon this expression gave way to a mild smile.</p><p>"We'll see," he replied, softly, gently, laid a hand on my cheek and kissed me.</p>
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<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Chapter 32</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The following morning I stood in the sales room of the small grocer's shop and shoved my hand into a sack of rice, just for a moment. Cool, soft as velvet and with a pleasant pressure the rice played around my skin. Then I took the ladle from the counter and filled the big box from which the rice would be sold at the end. It was early; most shops were still closed. Three days a week I helped out here, refilling goods, marking them, carrying boxes back and forth and disappearing as soon as the shop opened. It was an old-fashioned-looking place, with solid oak shelves and a heavy counter just to the left of the door. Working here was necessary but joyless, mere duty, that was all.</p><p>After I had filled the box with rice, I brought the linen bag back to the warehouse. There I found them already lined up, the boxes of fruit and vegetables, delivered in the night, waiting to be taken outside. I took them one by one and carried them out, where I lined them up under the awning. Gradually the sun moved over the red-blue horizon. It was still cool, but it would not stay that way for long. No cloud was to be seen in the sky.</p><p>Carefully I took one apple after the other out of the box and arranged them into a pyramid. They were large, heavy and surprisingly flawless apples, reddish-yellow in colour and full of flavour. In the past, the owner had occasionally left me some of the surplus goods, but those times were long gone.</p><p>Voices came to me from afar, distorted by excitement and anger. Soon I recognised Farlan first, then Isabelle and paused. They turned the corner of a building, barely a hundred yards from me. They had probably been on the road since that night. Throwing the jacket over his shoulder, Farlan had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt up to over his elbows. The hair hung tangled in his face, as if after a night of wild dancing. He walked ahead, with firm, brisk steps, followed by Isabelle. They looked like they were fleeing, or rather hunting. She wanted something from him, obviously, but he tried to avoid her. When she did not succeed in getting his attention in this way, she became louder.</p><p>They were going out, Farlan had told me the evening before and then invited Erwin and me. Under the objection that I had to get up early, I refused and let him leave.</p><p>Farlan ignored Isabelle's calls, but at some point it was too much for him and he drove around. Everything about him tried to silence her, the way he talked to her, the way he raised his hands and put them on her shoulders (she tore herself away from him immediately), the way he grabbed her by the upper arm and tried to prevent her from leaving. He did not succeed. Instead, she pushed him away, her face distorted in rage. I could not understand what they were talking about; they were too far away. Then Isabelle raised her hand and slapped Farlan, so violently that his face flew to the side. It was quiet for a second, only a few doves nearby flew away, startled by the noise. Then she pushed herself past him and disappeared shortly afterwards in the alley near the Wittumspalais.</p><p>It took a few seconds before life returned to Farlan's limbs. Slowly he moved around on his heel and watched her walking away. Then he turned his head and looked to the grocery store, which I held out in front of. Our eyes met. Farlan seemed calm, almost apathetic. Without saying anything, he pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and continued on his way, in the opposite direction though, and was soon gone.</p><p>For a moment I wondered whether I should follow him. Never before had I seen such a fierce argument between them. The apple that I still held in my hand I had long forgotten.</p><p>"Ackermann." A man's voice sounded behind me and I turned around. I looked into the freckled, snub-nosed face of a young man, at most a few years older than me. His name was Flegel, and he owned the place. The old owner, his father, had always been available for a quick chat, good-humoured and eager to get down to business. But a heart attack had put an end to his activities nine months ago. Since then, Flegel had been running the business, a rude, profit-oriented guy who lacked both humor and backbone due to his own insecurities. While I had previously enjoyed working here to some extent, my employment was now only a means to an end.</p><p>"What?" I asked. Flegel's gaze wandered back and forth between the apple and me.</p><p>"I'm not paying you to stand around," he then said. He sounded annoyed. My fingers closed tighter around the smooth skin of the apple.</p><p>"I know", I returned in the same tone of voice. Flegel's eyebrows moved up a few millimetres.</p><p>"Then what are you standing around here for?" He took a step towards me. Probably trying to intimidate me. I didn't move. I looked at him, completely unimpressed. Sometimes it made me itch to pull him into an unobserved corner on the way home by night and fog and give him his due. But in the end, he wouldn't be worth the effort, measured by the trouble it would cause. Besides, I needed the money. So I let him be.</p><p>"A squirrel," I replied instead, placing the apple at the top of the pyramid. "It caught my attention."</p><p>"Whatever." With these words, Flegel nodded to one of the boxes and ordered me to continue working. Then he turned on his heel and steered back to the entrance of the shop, paused once more and addressed me. "One more thing," he said, while his right hand was already holding the door handle.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I need you for the inventory."</p><p>"When?"</p><p>"End of the month. Will be a Saturday, as usual."</p><p>"Your father used to do that by himself."</p><p>"My father isn't here anymore. Keep the weekends clear, you hear?" He turned back to the door, a snide click on his lips. "Make sure you turn up."</p>
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<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Chapter 33</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That night, my request, his words - they tied us together, more closely than I thought possible. We only knew each other for a short time, and yet Erwin was already so familiar to me, as I could not have been myself. Every move he made, every inch of his body, everything about him. From that night on we were inseparable, both in the secret corners of his apartment and under the curious eyes of the others. Officially, we were bound together by a friendship that grew stronger quickly and only the two of us knew the whole truth behind it. Time passed and our self-confidence grew. No had one noticed anything.</p><p>Farlan, who believed my career to be on the rise, was full of praise - if he noticed it in his work boosts. Lately he had been sleeping less and seemed to be busy all the time; there was nothing I could do about it. Isabelle was less and less to be found with us. It didn't bother Farlan. Obviously, he didn't attach any importance to it. I did.</p><p> </p><p>Day after day went by. The graduation project I'd been struggling with was fading into the background. I still lacked ideas, and since Erwin's return I also lacked motivation (something that could not be said for Farlan). My evenings and weekends belonged to him. While Erwin's apartment had seemed sterile and cold to me before, I slowly settled in. It was a studio apartment, one room served as kitchen, living room, bedroom and dining room, the furniture was functional and simple, but of high quality. No unnecessary ornamentation was found here, rather dark wood, straight lines, simple objectivity. We spent whole nights there, melting our bodies into each other, talking, contemplating each other's company, only interrupted by periods of pleasant silence and quiet work. My mother used to say that it was more important to be able to be silent with each other than to talk. She was right.</p><p> </p><p>It was Sunday - I had been avoiding going to church for a while - and it was raining. Thick drops were beating against the window, the sky lay in a shallow, light grey above them. The floor of the apartment was covered with paper. Sometimes Erwin tried to keep his promise to draw me, but mostly it was only for a few strokes until he let go of the paper and lay down with me again.</p><p>A book in my hand, I was lying in bed, a half-drunk cup of tea next to me on the bedside table. We had been out the previous night, had had some drinks with the usual acquaintances in the usual pub, but soon retired. Sometimes I wondered if Farlan secretly knew what was going on, I was hardly ever at home. If this was the case, he hadn't shown any signs of it so far.</p><p>Erwin was lying right next to me. Until a few minutes ago, he had captured designs in a sketchbook, but he had lost his motivation. Since then he looked at me, his head resting on his hand, with a strangely rapt expression on his face that made me increasingly nervous.</p><p>"What's wrong?" I turned the page. Although I had long since finished Benn's poems, Eld then handed me another booklet by the same author: a short, inconsistent prose story about a doctor named Rönne, who gradually distanced himself from the world, first inwardly, then through his actions, until all that remained of him were confused, associative thought fragments.</p><p>Erwin said something, but his words reached me as if from far away. "What?" I sounded preoccupied.</p><p>"I think I'm falling in love you."</p><p>The book slipped from my hand. Friendly and awake, Erwin's eyes were resting on me, his face filled with a carefree cheerfulness, as if talking about the weather. For a moment I looked at him closely, checked his words for sincerity, then I smiled, "Say that again."</p><p>Erwin sat up, bent over and pressed his forehead against mine. "I love you," he whispered and I shivered. Again he breathed a kiss on my lips, repeated his confession, kissed me again, this time on cheek and chin, interrupted over and over again by the same words. So he worked his way down my upper body until his fingers brushed the sheet aside and his lips reached my loins. With my eyes closed I sank into the sheets and let go.</p><p> </p><p>"I have to leave town for a while," Erwin said afterwards and the blond hair slid into his face. All of a sudden he seemed changed. Mentally he was somewhere else. The warmth that had surrounded him before was gone. His tone sounded cool, unemotional and businesslike. He stroked the corners of his mouth with the tip of his thumb.</p><p>"For how long?"</p><p>"One or two weeks.</p><p>"Where to? Leipzig?</p><p>He nodded without looking at me. "And Dessau."</p><p>"What are you doing in Dessau?"</p><p>"We're assessing a potential project site."</p><p>"Erwin."</p><p>"You know that I-"</p><p>"Take me with you."</p><p>He snorted, and it sounded amused. "There are other things you should focus on," he smiled, and I knew he meant my graduation project.</p><p>"When are you leaving?"</p><p>"The day after tomorrow."</p><p>"So soon?" All of a sudden, the kindness was gone from my face. "Will they send you away so spontaneously again?" But one look in Erwin's face and I understood that it was not so. A pressing feeling spread through my chest, subjecting all my limbs to a slight, unnoticed tension. I became hot at first, then cold. My fingers clawed into the sheet, my eyes darkened. I felt betrayed. "How long have you known?"</p><p>"A while."</p><p>"And you're telling me this now?"</p><p>"I didn't think it was important." Erwin sat up. The sheet slipped off his chest and lay in his lap. "Two weeks go by fast." His eyes wandered across my face, searching. When he couldn't figure me out, he shook his head in annoyance. "I don't see your problem, Levi. Before you know I'm gone, I'll be back. It "s not like we are married, is it? Don't talk to me like you own me."</p><p>"I do not presume to own you," I hissed without looking at him. "But I would like you to speak to me more openly. Your decisions and actions affect me as well." I clicked my tongue. It sounded derogatory. "Whether we are married or not."</p><p>"Levi." Erwin bent over and blew a kiss on my shoulder. "There's still time."</p><p>"So what?"</p><p>"Come by my office tomorrow."</p><p>"What am I supposed to do there?"</p><p>"I want to show you something."</p><p>I raised my eyebrows and looked at him out of the corner of my eye. "A secret?" I asked, pursing my lips.</p><p>Erwin laughed. "Who knows," he replied and his eyes flashed conspiratorially. "Maybe."</p>
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<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Chapter 34</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sound of my nailed shoes echoed from the plastered walls. The weather had kept up; it was so hot outside that I broke out in sweat on the short walk between home and university. With my linen shirt rolled up over my upper arms and my hands concealed in my trouser pockets, I reported to the reception desk of Gropius' architectural office, strolled down the corridors and climbed a flight of stairs. Seeing Erwin would be a pleasant contrast to the tense morning I had in the grocery store behind; I was full of anticipation, my steps light and buoyant.</p><p>I stopped at the end of the stairs. A white-painted hallway stretched out in front of me, and from there dark oak doors led to the adjoining offices. The smell of coffee was in the air. A young woman passed me, her red hair in curls and pinned up, a pile underlaid on her arm. She did not pay attention to me. From the individual rooms I could hear the clicking of typewriters, the laughter and the conversations of men. I felt out of place. While we were doing our art as a game in the main building, serious work was being done here. For many of my fellow students this office was a place of longing at the horizon of their studies.</p><p>Two men in slim-fitting suits entered the corridor, a large folder, probably with sketches, under their arms, absorbed in a lively conversation. I had to take a step back to let them pass and opened my mouth, as I wanted to ask them for directions, but they didn't look at me either. It was as if I was invisible, long dead, nothing more than the spirit of an existence without a trace. My lips pressed together into a narrow line, I closed my hands into fists. Of course I could walk down the corridor, study every name tag, knock and inquire, but to be honest, I lacked the patience for that.</p><p>"Herr Schmidt!" My voice echoed through the building. The sounds of the typewriters died away, the conversations faded. It was silent for a moment. Then the outline of a tall blond man appeared in a doorway at the end of the corridor. Erwin. No sooner did his eyes rest on me than his face lit up.</p><p>"There you are," he greeted me, and I ran towards him. He put his hand on my shoulder, but only touched me casually. After a quick glance into the corridor he pulled me into the room and closed the door behind us. To my surprise it was not an office, but a passage room. It was narrow and almost empty. There were display cases along the walls. Some contained photographs, others models in wood and plaster. Opposite the entrance, at the end of the room, there was another door.</p><p>No sooner were we alone together than Erwin took my face in his hands and kissed me. I wrapped my arms around him.</p><p>"God, how I've missed you," Erwin breathed against my lips, desirous and longing. He broke away from me.</p><p>"Where are we?"</p><p>"In the archive." His blue eyes wandered around, with a gentle grin on his face. "Actually you are not supposed to be here."</p><p>"There are many things I'm not supposed to be doing." We looked at each other and began to grin. "Seems your courage has indeed returned. Bringing me here, showing me things I shouldn't, kissing me in public..."</p><p>"Kissing you alone in a closed room is not public," he laughed.</p><p>"You know what I mean." I suggested a smile and let my fingertips slide over the display case on my left. "What time do you leave tomorrow morning?"</p><p>"The train departs at six."</p><p>"That's early."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"You wouldn't want me to sleep at your place tonight, I guess."</p><p>Erwin looked guilty. "It's gonna be a long day tomorrow. I should be well rested."</p><p>"I understand."</p><p>"You do?"</p><p>"Yeah." I reached for Erwin's hand and intertwined our fingers. "What did you want to show me?"</p><p>"Come along."</p><p>Erwin turned away and pulled me behind him. We headed for the opposite door, opened it and slipped into the adjoining room. It was bigger and rectangular. Light fell in through wide, ceiling-high windows and was reflected by the blinding white painted walls. Right in front of the windows was a desk, of sober and simple design and black paint. It looked very tidy, and except for some pencils and a pair of scissors it was completely empty. On the opposite side was a showcase, inside of which was a white plaster bust of a man unknown to me, right next to a bottle of cognac and accompanying glasses. Diagonally beside it I discovered a leather seating set and a glass coffee table.</p><p>After we entered the room, Erwin locked the door.</p><p>"Where are we?"</p><p>"Gropius' office."</p><p>"Erwin-"</p><p>"Don't worry. He's out of town."</p><p>My eyes widened in surprise. Without moving, I let my gaze wander across the room once more. So this was Gropius' office? Gropius, head of Bauhaus, this grand scheme at the horizon of art, famous, a legend. I could feel my mouth getting increasingly dry at the respect and esteem that filled me.</p><p>"You wanted to know what we were working on", Erwin continued, let go of my hand and stepped into the middle of the room.</p><p>"Maybe", I agreed and followed him, "but you had said it was secret."</p><p>"It is." He gave me a smile and pointed to a table-like structure just beside the seating arrangement. Whatever it was, it was bent under a cream-coloured cloth and had the dimensions of a billiard table. Without waiting, Erwin approached the structure and pulled the cloth down with a sweeping movement of his hand. A model of impressive size, white colour and incredible precision appeared. Several narrow, rectangular buildings intertwined there. They were of simple objectivity, more like raw forms than finished buildings, but we knew that this was the way it should be. The largest one looked like a studio building; one side was fully glazed over the entire width. On the narrower, quadratic end of the building, from top to bottom, there was a sign in simple, concise letters: BAUHAUS was written there.</p><p>For a moment my breath stopped.</p><p>"What's this?" I whispered and approached the model. Gently I reached out my hand and was tempted to touch it, but stopped at the last moment. A sinking feeling spread in the pit of my stomach and I didn't really know why. Finally I turned to Erwin. "Who built this?"</p><p>"I did." Pride in what he had accomplished flashed in his eyes.</p><p>"What is that supposed to be?"</p><p>"The new Bauhaus building." Erwin spoke with a calm voice, but I frowned at the fire burning in his eyes.</p><p>"A new building?" I raised my hands without understanding. "The present one serves its purpose splendidly. Why-"</p><p>"It's not for Weimar," Erwin interrupted me and put the cream-colored coverlet folded up on the coffee table. We looked at each other, then, after a few seconds, I understood.</p><p>"Weimar will be abandoned," I whispered soundlessly.</p><p>Erwin nodded."It is not official yet, but Gropius will cancel the contracts at the end of the year. The Bauhaus will move to Dessau."</p><p>"To Dessau? But why?"</p><p>"State funding was halved after the last election. The current government has taken it upon itself to bleed us dry; successfully, if you want. There's no future for us here. For you."</p><p>My hands, resting on the broad wooden frame of the table, clawed into the varnished wood. So the rumors were true. The brown shirts were not only on the rise - their influence was already enough to have a lasting effect on our lives here. Weimar was increasingly turning into a nationalist, culturally hostile swamp.</p><p>With his hands in his trouser pockets, Erwin approached me. "You know that one word from you can cost me my head on this, don't you?" he added and I nodded. "Promise me that you won't tell anyone about it."</p><p>"Don't worry about me." My eyes wandered over the model. "When again?" I finally asked.</p><p>"Next year."</p><p>I thought about Farlan. Isabelle. Petra. I felt Erwin's hand on my shoulder. It slid gently along my shoulder blades, finally resting on my back, and its warmth giving me shivers. "You'll have graduated by then anyway", Erwin whispered into my ear and pressed a kiss on my temple. "Don't worry."</p><p>"I don't. I was just surprised, that's all."</p><p>"Good." Erwin's voice told me he was smiling. I, on the other hand, felt a growing sac in the pit of my stomach. What would become of me now, once I left the protective walls of this place, was beyond me. I was still lacking concrete ideas for my professional career; the simple thought of it was making me increasingly nervous. Returning home was not an option. But what was to happen next? How was I supposed to find a way that I did not know?</p><p>My eyes lay on Erwin, who was still standing so close to me that I could smell his aftershave. Would this also mean our farewell? The thought alone was enough to tighten my throat. I let my head sink against him, and pulled him towards me.</p><p>"How am I going to get through two weeks without you?"</p><p>Erwin laughed, and I felt his breath on my forehead. "With patience and confidence." Gently he bent down to me until his lips were next to my ear. "And you have two steady hands on your own, don't you?"</p><p>Heat rose to my cheeks. Meanwhile, Erwin's fingers kept sliding down my back. I raised my head and looked at Erwin. A trembling started to fill my breath. The fire in his eyes, it burned stronger than ever. I knew that expression, but he had only seen it in the protection of his bedroom before.</p><p>"Here?" I whispered.</p><p>A promising smile played around Erwin's lips. "I locked the door," he whispered. "It's lunchtime. Most people are out to lunch." He put a strand of hair behind my ear and kissed me. Then he placed his hands on my upper body and let them slide over it. Before I knew what was happening, my pants were too tight around my waist. Erwin's lips moved across my cheek and for a brief moment he playfully bit my ear. "Didn't you want to feel me in you?" His voice was nothing more than a breeze.</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"Still?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Then bend forward. I'll give you something to think about in my absence."</p><p>"But what if..."</p><p>"Nothing will happen. The door is locked."</p><p>With a wildly beating heart I placed my hands flat on the wooden frame of the model table. It took only moments and Erwin stood behind me. His hands slid along my chest, reached the waistband of my trousers, loosened the belt and opened it. He kissed me on the shoulder, then let his hand slide under the waistband, pulled the shirt out and soon found what he was looking for. His fingers closed around me, a man who had been longing for that touch already hard and wet, and a gasping sound escaped my throat. So he touched me until I had almost reached my limit. Then he let go of me and opened his own trousers. Seconds later Erwin grabbed my hip and pressed his pelvis against mine. An unrelenting heat searched its way between my thighs. I lowered my head and my forehead touched my forearms. In this way we fought with each other and I felt as if a predator was holding me tight in its claws.</p><p>"You have to relax," Erwin whispered behind me. His hands held me tight, at the same time gentle and demanding. With two careful thrusts he penetrated me, up to the deepest point, then paused. My lips were slightly open, my breath was shaking. With every movement a hoarse gasping emerged from my throat.</p><p>"What's wrong?", I asked. Then Erwin pressed a handkerchief into my hand, we both knew what for. No matter how hard we tried to banish the world outside, we couldn't leave any traces. Then Erwin began to thrust himself into me, to take what he needed, with increasingly strong moves, until body and mind became one, until nothing separated us from each other but the thin membranes of our already dying flesh. We didn't make a sound, only our breaths filled the air, the occasional rustling of our shirts, and I bit my lower lip to prevent an unintentional release of what I felt.</p><p>"I can't go on any longer", Erwin finally gasped and his hands detached from me, but I was faster and held his wrist with my right.</p><p>"No", I hissed and my voice did not allow any contradiction. "I want you inside me."</p><p>Erwin hesitated for a moment, then he pulled me closer one last time, pushed faster, harder, until finally he buried his face between my shoulders. The heat of his breath ate through the thin fabric of my shirt. A twitch went through his loins and he melted inside me, wet and hot at the same time. I was carried away by Erwin. With my eyes closed, I pressed the handkerchief against myself and ejaculated inside. Then we sank into each other, breathing heavily, intoxicated by our mutual existence. Erwin kissed me on the neck and for the first time I understood that I needed him like an opium addict needs his pipe. Since I had first slept with Erwin, I no longer masturbated. He couldn't. Everything seemed pointless without him.</p><p>Wordlessly, a smile on our lips, we cleaned ourselves and put our clothes in order. I handed Erwin the handkerchief and he took it. Once more he bent over and kissed me on the lips. His hands closed around my face and I buried my fingers in his blond, silky hair. In this way I held him tight, sucked in his scent, the smell of his skin, everything.</p><p>"You're insane," I whispered against Erwin's lips before releasing him, but it sounded like a compliment. Erwin laughed, cheerful and relaxed, ran his hand through his hair and put each strand of hair back in place. Then the door opened. His laughter died away.</p><p>A middle-aged man entered, wearing dark brown trousers and vest, instead of hair polished bald skin adorned his head. He had to be a few years older than Erwin. Thick shadows appeared under his eyes. When he saw us, he stopped and looked at us critically from up to down. The face frozen into a motionless mask, I held his gaze.</p><p>"Mr. Shadis", Erwin began, hesitantly.</p><p>"What is he doing here?", he asked and pointed his finger at me.</p><p>The face as unmoved as circumstances allowed, Erwin returned the gaze of his counterpart. "That's Levi Ackermann," he said in an unnaturally calm manner, "my assistant."</p><p>"Since when do you have an assistant, Schmidt?"</p><p>"Since this week."</p><p>"Does Gropius know about this?"</p><p>"What do you think?"</p><p>The man's forehead was furrowing. He looked at me again, full of suspicion, but then decided that the matter was not important enough to pursue. "I need you over there," he said in the commanding tone of a man who must have been in the army. "Come. And for God's sake, open a window, the stench in here is unbearable."</p><p>He turned on the landing and wanted to leave the room, then Erwin found his voice again.</p><p>"Tell me, Mr. Shadis-"</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>"The door lock-"</p><p>Shadis raised his hand like he was scaring away a fly. "Hasn't worked for ages, but somehow nobody seems to feel responsible. Let the janitor know when you leave the building this afternoon, he'll finally take care of it. Do you understand?"</p><p>"Yes, sir."</p><p>With these words, the man called Shadis left the room and closed the door behind him. We looked at him motionlessly before my nervousness subsided and I began to laugh.</p><p>"That could have been a pain in the ass," I snorted, went over to the sofa table and took down the cream-colored cloth with which I covered the model. "Your assistant, huh? Not a bad idea. Although I must admit that your recklessness surprised me. My bad influence on you, who knows. Perhaps we should just leave it at that for now. What do you think? Although, if you ask me, it wasn't bad."</p><p>I looked at him and froze. Every color had drained from his face, his skin as white as snow. Grabbing his neck with his left hand, he gasped for breath and stumbled one step backwards before hitting his hips against the now covered model.</p><p>"Hey, Erwin." With swift steps I approached him. "What's the matter?"</p><p>But his gaze was fixed on the distance. His breaths were shallow and frequent. "I think I'm having a heart attack," he whispered, his eyes widened in fear. Now he began to tremble, first his hands, then his shoulders, uncontrollably and violently, he probably didn't even notice. "I can't breathe."</p><p>"Does your arm hurt?"</p><p>"No, but--"</p><p>He never got around to finishing the sentence. Instead, his breath accelerated further, became deeper, too deep, while he tore open his water-blue eyes, his pupils tiny, contracted like the heads of pins. Deathly fear was written on his face, his legs began to sway, they would give way at any moment.</p><p>Following an intuition, I pulled up a chair. Erwin reached out for me and I grabbed it, grabbed his arm as well and led him across, but Erwin ignored the chair and headed for one of the armchairs instead. There he collapsed, sank down onto the soft leather, nimbly, as if his strength was running out of his limbs with every step, like an animal on the run, knowing that there was no way out. He lingered there for a moment, then he was back on his feet and I rushed to him, grabbed his shoulders and forced him to sit down again.</p><p>This is not a heart attack, it shot through my head. I got down on my knees in front of Erwin, enclosed his hand with mine. Erwin clasped it like a drowning man, with a desperate firmness that soon hurt, but I held still. Again and again Erwin's chest rose. Through his open mouth he sucked the air anxiously into his lungs. His eyes, they looked over me, saw things I could only guess at, then they filled with tears. They dried up as quickly as they had come.</p><p>I began to talk to him, reassuring trivialities that I forgot as soon as they had passed my lips, trying to chain him by speech to a shared world so that he would not slip away from me. Finally, it could not have been more than a minute and yet it felt like a human life, the panic ebbed away. His breath calmed down. Life returned to his eyes. Tension left his body and, if only gradually, his hands as well. So he paused for a while before he raised his head and looked at me, whispering my name, as if he had forgotten that I had stayed with him all this time. It was as if he awoke from a dreadful nightmare.</p><p>"What the hell was that?" I whispered.</p><p>"I don't know." Erwin took a deep breath and closed his eyes, let his shoulders sink as if with the fear the remaining strength had drained from him. He looked exhausted to death.</p><p>I stood up, approached the dresser, took out the cognac and poured myself a glass. I emptied it with a long sip, then I poured more and gave it to Erwin.</p><p>"Drink", I muttered in a scratchy voice and sat down on one of the chairs, slowly, as if the last minutes had drained all the strength out of my body, too.</p><p>"What is this?"</p><p>"Cognac."</p><p>Lost in thought, Erwin looked at the glass, then, as if I had given him a bitter-tasting medicine, he brought it to his lips and drank. "We shouldn't have done this," he whispered. "How could I have been so reckless?"</p><p>"No one will notice that anything is missing," I replied.</p><p>"You know what I mean."</p><p>I took the glass out of his hand and put it on the trolley that was used for collecting used dishes. "Nothing happened," I said and was surprised at the formal tone of my voice.</p><p>Erwin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Because we were lucky." He shook his head. "I should have known better," he said in a cool tone. "False security. Foolishness." Then, in a harder voice, "Such a mistake is unforgivable."</p><p>"No. Such things happen."</p><p>"Not to me." He pulled a face in disgust. For a moment he looked at his hands, still trembling, resting in his lap. Then he raised his eyes and looked at me. "l-"</p><p>The door was opened again. It was Shadis. Of course.</p><p>"Schmidt, what's going on?" He seemed upset.</p><p>"Nothing." Erwin smiled. "The heat's making me dizzy, that's all."</p><p>"Then have a glass of water."</p><p>"That's all right, thank you."</p><p>"Just pull yourself together and come. We're waiting."</p><p>"Yes, sir."</p><p>Steps. The sound of a door closing. The smile faded. All that remained was emptiness.</p><p>"You shouldn't go," I said earnestly, but at the same time insistently. "Take the rest of the day off, have a rest."</p><p>"No. They need me." Erwin covered his face with his hand and massaged his forehead, still struggling for composure, it was obvious.</p><p>"What did you want to tell me?"</p><p>"Nothing. It's not important." Erwin let his hand sink. "I must go. Shadis is getting angry."</p><p>With these words, he stood up and turned to the door. I followed him, grabbed his wrist and held him back.</p><p>"I'll see you before you go, won't I?" I asked, not without suspicion.</p><p>Erwin's eyes wandered across my face, slowly, thoughtfully, down to my hand, then back to me. I could not interpret his expression. We were as close as ever and yet he felt strange.</p><p>"I'll get in touch with you", Erwin said, but his voice lacked depth. He pressed a kiss on my lips, then he escaped my grasp and left the room. I looked after him, raised my hand as if to greet him, but I had been alone for a long time, no one but me was here. So I let it sink, unseen. A little later I left too. Rarely in my life had I felt so alone as in this moment.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Chapter 35</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On the way back to the apartment the streets seemed deserted and empty. I walked around as if in a trance and when I finally reached the apartment door, I no longer had any memory of the way I walked. This is how sleepwalkers must feel when they wake up, I thought and stepped into the stairwell with a blank expression on my face. The end of my meeting with Erwin was still stuck in my bones.</p><p>After a few steps a bitter, acrid smell entered my nose. I paused for a moment, then I clasped the banister tighter and hurried up. More and more the smell, a mixture of darkness and sweetness, became so scratchy that I soon began to cough. My steps accelerated. I rushed up the last steps and away from the stairs, over to the apartment door, which I unlocked and opened with trembling hands. For a moment I held my breath. Wildly my heart raged in my chest.</p><p>There was hardly anything to be seen of the kitchen itself; thick clouds of smoke spread through the small, winding room.</p><p>"Farlan?" My voice lacked firmness. I coughed again. With trembling fingers I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and pulled out a handkerchief, which I pressed on my mouth and nose. Meanwhile my steps led me deeper into the apartment. The smoke did not come from the kitchen; the small kitchenette lay unused and dirty as usual. The same applied to the bathroom.</p><p>"Farlan!" Increasingly frightened, I rushed over to his room door and tore it open. Thick clouds of smoke billowed towards me and made me take a step back, where they billowed past me into the kitchen. Only now, when the smoke cleared, could I see him, Farlan, squatting in the middle of the room, mouth and nose bound with a scarf. Between his knees rested a zinc bucket in which it burned. Next to it, scattered like a pile of leaves, were photographs, of which I let them disappear one by one in the middle of the bucket, in a calm and even manner. I had to mention my name one more time, until he turned to me as if he were dreaming. His eyes were red and watery.</p><p>"What the hell are you doing?" I shouted. I searched the room for water, but all I found was a pair of empty wine bottles at the foot of Farlan's bed.</p><p>"It's no use," he whispered, shrugging his shoulders. His eyes filled with tears. "It's no good." He began to sob and cough immediately, cheeks wet, fingertips black with soot, as well as the ceiling above him. For a moment I looked back and forth between Farlan and the bucket, then I stepped up and, before Farlan could object, I'd wrenched the bucket from him and carried him into the bathroom. Seconds later he loudly jumped up behind me and followed, filled with the power of despair, screaming, crying. He did not stop even when I turned on the tap and began to extinguish the fire. Instead, Farlan grabbed me by the upper arm and pulled me back. The bucket slipped out of my hand, crashed to the ground and scattered the contents on the tiled ground. Silently I looked at the utensils on the floor. All at once I felt strangely drained, almost tired. Then Farlan's hands closed around my shoulders and pressed me against the wall.</p><p>"You've ruined everything", Farlan hissed. The scarf had slipped from his face and now I was halfway between his shoulders and chest. A dark soot streak ran across his nose. Eyes flashed with rage. I did not recognize him in them.</p><p>"I've ruined everything?" I whispered incredulously. My hands began to tremble. With one violent movement, I took the grip of Farlan and pushed him away. "I?!" I kicked the bucket to the side, overwhelmed by my sudden anger. It banged against the tiled wall. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"</p><p>But instead of answering, Farlan turned away. Sobbing, he collapsed over the bucket and began to pick up the charred remains of the photos with his fingers. On any other day of his life I would have taken care of him, but not today. Too much had already happened on that day. Impatiently I grabbed him by the collar. "Oy," I hissed, "I'm talking to you."</p><p>"Leave me alone."</p><p>"The hell I will."</p><p>Farlan groped for my hand, but I dragged him back to his legs with unyielding force. "You could have killed us, was that your plan? You think I'm not in enough trouble right now, that I should be living under the bridge like some fuckin' hobo?"</p><p>"I had it under control." Farlan wouldn't look at me.</p><p>"Nonsense." I clicked my tongue in a bad temper. "People always think they have things under control, and then it all goes to hell."</p><p>"You don't understand." Farlan's shoulders began to shake. His voice filled with increasing anger, he freed himself from my grip.</p><p>In return, he received a cold laugh from me. "Of course not!" I grabbed Farlan by the wrist and dragged him back to his room. "Look at this mess. It makes no sense. You're not making any sense, Farlan!"</p><p>By this time most of the smoke had spread to the nearby kitchen. I rushed over to the only window and ripped it open. Farlan didn't pay any attention to me. Instead, he sank to his knees again, groped for any remaining photos and pushed them across the soot-blackened floor with a stare. His breath was irregular. The blond hair hung confusedly in his face. For a while I watched him in silence, while a feeling spread inside me that I hadn't heard for a long time, somewhere between hopelessness and resignation. With a deep sigh I let my shoulders droop.</p><p>"Enough", I whispered in a weak voice. "Come with me." I got down on my knees beside him and took his hand.</p><p>"Leave me alone."</p><p>"No. That's enough." I got up and pulled Farlan with me.</p><p>"Where are you going?" muttered Farlan with a nervous look at the photos. "Isabel is not here."</p><p>"To see the doctor."</p><p>"With me?" Farlan looked up and a crooked smile came over his lips. "You're making a fool of yourself."</p><p>"Look at you!" It took every ounce of self-control I had not to lose my temper again. "You're not in your right mind."</p><p>"I'm working," Farlan staggered violently.</p><p>"Day and night?!"</p><p>"I gotta think!"</p><p>"You're talking nonsense!"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Mad shit is all you've been producing these past few weeks." I took the photos out of his hand and dropped them on the floor. "None of this makes sense. It's incomprehensible. There are plenty of others who think the same."</p><p>"I'm an artist! It's your problem if you don't understand, not mine." With a sudden, abrupt movement, he drew me closer to him. "When was the last time you put something clever on paper, huh?" he whispered and the smile on his lips took on a cruel twist.</p><p>I opened my mouth for an answer, but not a sound left my throat. Instead, I shook my head softly. "You don't even see how you've changed," I said in a dull voice.</p><p>"I haven't changed", laughed Farlan.</p><p>"You almost set our apartment on fire. Can't you see it?"</p><p>"Because you're wrong. I had everything under control at all times-"</p><p>"Shut up!" With my free hand I picked up the remaining photos and threw them against the wall. "For the love of God, shut your mouth!" Farlan tensed under my fingers, so I let go and, struggling for control, bit my lower lip. I didn't want to frighten him. "You've lost sight of reality," I continued more gently. For a moment we looked at each other, each of us clenching our hands in fists. But as the grin on Farlan's lips grew in intensity, I understood that I hadn't gotten through to him at all.</p><p>"You're the one to talk," he laughed.</p><p>I raised my eyebrows. "What?"</p><p>"Oh please." Farlan pulled his hand away from me. He didn't bother. There was still a glint of wet tears clinging to his cheeks, but apart from that he seemed to have calmed down. He looked at me with a distant, almost defiant look."It's always been easier to find fault with others than with yourself, hasn't it? How Catholic of you."</p><p>I looked at him with a furrowed brow. "What that supposed to mean?"</p><p>"Don't act dumber than you are," Farlan laughed. "Erwin Schmidt?" Meaningly, he raised his eyebrows and seemed completely satisfied when he saw the look on my face as to what he said. "You seem to have a nice friendship going on there."</p><p>"We work together," I replied, and my throat suddenly felt raw and dry.</p><p>"Yes, all night long." He laughed again. "You two must work real hard."</p><p>"Stop it, Farlan."</p><p>"You meet him at his place?"</p><p>My heart seemed to fail its duty for one beat. I stared at him with opened lips.</p><p>"Oh, please." Farlan tapped me on the shoulder and stood up. Hands buried in his trouser pockets, he looked down at me with eyes that had lost all warmth. "You're never seen in the ateliers. The offices are locked early enough. When I asked Gropius about you the other day, he didn't even know your name. That seems rather odd, even for you. Tell me - what are you working on at the moment exactly?"</p><p>I stared at him with widened eyes. No matter what I answered now, I would have to lie to him to save my reputation - to save Erwin's. Unfortunately, my hesitation was enough for Farlan.</p><p>"You said I've changed. You should see yourself when Schmidt isn't around." He clicked his tongue and it sounded snide. "You're running abound the place like a moth that has lost its light."</p><p>"That's not true."</p><p>"Oh, really? And you share his cologne just because it's easier for everyone?"</p><p>"Stop it."</p><p>"How else are you gonna explain why you always reek of him when you come home from his place?" He came up to me, bent over and smelled my hair. "Just like now. You saw each other, didn't you? Was it good?" He laughed again, sneering and cold. "And here I was, thinking you were getting your life together."</p><p>"Shut up, Farlan." My hands, clenched in fists, began to tremble.</p><p>"Is he giving you a good time, our Herr Architect? Does he make you beg for more until you can hardly stand it? Because that's what I do with the women I fuck." His lips were whispering next to my ear. "You see, Isabel and I had already begun to wonder if you were asexual. Who knew that only the right cock would have to come along to bring you to your knees?"</p><p>Before I knew what I was doing, I had jumped up and shoved my fist in his face. My fingers clawed his hair and he did the same to me. Together we crashed against the adjacent wall, slid down to the floor, onto the pictures, rolled through the sooty remains of the previous fire, filled with hatred, hatred of ourselves, of each other, of the world. Only after everyone had tasted the blood of the other and no one had the strength for another blow did we sink down together, half moaning and both crying. We remained lying there, our eyes fixed on the blackened ceiling, our faces dented and swollen, our noses crusted. Only casually did I feel moisture in the corners of my eyes. I blinked them away, the tears.</p><p>"Perhaps you are right", Farlan whispered after a few minutes of absolute silence. "Maybe I really am losing my mind."</p><p>"Anyway, the ceiling is ruined."</p><p>"The tapestry, too."</p><p>I sighed. "Isabel's worried about you."</p><p>"Is she?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Farlan sighed. "We broke up."</p><p>"I thought so."</p><p>"Why?" Surprised, he looked at me out of the corner of his eye.</p><p>"Your fight at the Wittumspalais. That morning, I was helping out with Flegels. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn't miss you two squabbling."</p><p>Farlan nodded devoutly, as if he now knew a few things. "That's right," he murmured in a low voice. "I saw you there."</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>Again we fell silent. Then Farlan turned his head in my direction and looked at me, his left eye swollen from a particularly skillful punch of my fist. "Are you in love with him?"</p><p>I shrugged. "I don't know. Most likely."</p><p>"Did you have a fight?"</p><p>"No." My eyes wandered lost in thought across the charred black ceiling. "But he's scared. Unlike me, he cares about what happens to him." I hesitated. At that moment, I realised one thing: He had taught me what it felt like to be alive. If I ever went to jail for that, it was a price I would pay with a light heart.</p><p>"Impressive."</p><p>I looked at him with a furrowed brow. "What?"</p><p>"That you can finally care about something." Farlan snorted with amusement. "Or someone. Who would have thought I'd live to see this day?"</p><p>"Don't be ridiculous. I care about you too."</p><p>We exchanged glances and smiles, our faces bloodied and grazed. Then Farlan sighed. "Sometimes I feel as if my life is falling apart underneath me. And the harder I fight it, the faster I fall."</p><p>"Do you hate me? Now that you know your roommate is a sodomitic pervert?"</p><p>Farlan paused for a moment. "No," he said, the voice soft and friendly again. I breathed a sigh of relief. "Everything will work out in the end, I think."</p><p>"Even for you?"</p><p>"Let's hope so."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Chapter 36</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The day ended without any further news from Erwin. But only towards the evening I understood that Erwin would leave without saying goodbye to me. While the uncertainty kept me awake for the first few days, my restlessness gradually turned into resignation, then anger.</p><p>In this manner the waiting drove me wild, until I became aware of the senselessness of my hopes and actions. On Erwin's return we would see each other again, just like the last time when he had stood in front of me that mild summer night with a water pistol in his hand.</p><p>Two weeks passed. Things stayed as they were. Erwin didn't get in touch. No phone call at the atelier, no letter, no postcard - nothing. Farlan, too, had fallen back into old patterns of behaviour, defying his moment of clarity and was once again lurching along sleeplessly day and night. If it could be arranged, I avoided the apartment by now. I would rather walk through town, always on guard against the Brown Shirts, than be confronted with my own or other people's problems. The fact that my sketch pads lived an untouched existence surprised no one during those days.</p><p> </p><p>It was Sunday. For the first time since a while, my steps had led me to church. I had had to hurry: a gloomy, cloudy sky and a refreshing wind pointed to an approaching thunderstorm. I was still looked at with suspicion, the wounds caused by my fight with Farlan had not gone unnoticed. I didn't care; there were enough other things that were more important to my mind.</p><p>That morning I sat quietly and with folded hands in the church bench, my eyes staring forward, following the priest, the priest of tall, slender figure, with the golden-blond hair, alert, blue eyes and the striking face. It was no coincidence that I had mistaken him for Erwin in the pub. Even now I couldn't help marvelling at how much this man resembled him in shape and habitus, in his way of speaking, looking and being. As if God had sent one of His angels on earth, he stood at the altar. He touched something in me, made our hearts vibrate in unison, in a way that I could not get out of my mind after each service.</p><p>Every now and then my fingertips slid over my thighs and the black matt fabric of my trousers, which hid them. Then a trembling flowed through my limbs and it seemed as if the energy of my body flowed straight into my loins. Soon I no longer followed the formally proclaimed words of the sermon. Eyes open, my gaze unyieldingly directed at the priest, my thoughts wandered away with me.</p><p>Soon the church was silent, empty except for the two of us. The light of the sun fell through the window of the altar and bathed the nave in a golden yellow light, interspersed here and there by coloured interjections of the coloured church glass. As if in a trance I rose from my bench and stepped forward into the area of the richly decorated altar. The smell of incense filled the air, which was dry from the stone walls around us, warm and soft at the same time.</p><p>Gently I put one step before the other. I must have left my jacket in the church bench. Only the translucent white shirt hid my narrow chest. As if by magic I found my way, an invisible power drove me forward; had I wanted to stop, I would not have been able to.</p><p>Only when the bright morning light touched my skin did I pause. Not far from the altar, a few meters away from it, stood the priest.</p><p>"Here I am, Father," I said and the priest began to smile.</p><p>"Come here to me, Son." I obeyed. In silence I went to the place the priest had assigned me, right in front of him.</p><p>"Kneel down," he then said and I followed. My eyes fixed on the ground I sank down. Only then did I dare to raise my head. Meanwhile the priest turned to the side and took a golden cup from the table, from which he let me drink. With the tenderness of a heavenly being he brought the metal to my lips, so gently that the touch resembled a gentle breeze on a hot summer afternoon. He then put it away and looked at me closely. The smile shown before still adorned his lips. Afterwards he laid his hand on my head. Barely noticeable, the tips of his fingers sank into my thick, black hair. "What follows now", he began, the voice no more than a whisper. He let his fingers slide down my temple and cheek before carefully but firmly lifting my chin, "is the Body of Christ." His fingers burned like fire on my skin, warming me and every fiber of my body. Slowly, lips gleaming with joyful anticipation, I opened my mouth.</p><p>Then the thundering of the church organ woke me up. I flinched, looked around me. Obviously the service was over. All around me, the people in attendance rose from their seats and stepped out into the open, some of them with a smile, many with unmoving, mask-like faces, their black umbrellas clasped tightly. The hands still resting on the thighs, I looked after them. Only when I thought I was alone did I stand up and closed my jacket. My heart was pumping blood wildly through my veins; the murmur in my ears made me stagger. Looking for a hold, my fingers groped for the shelf of the church bench. So I stayed like this for a few seconds until I had caught myself. Normally, after service, I would have strolled to the park as usual to read, as I did every Sunday. In the meantime, however, there had been lightning and thunder. A glance to the open church door revealed a heavy rain shower.</p><p>I decided to stay until the weather had calmed down and strolled through the spacious nave. The church itself had only been renovated a few years ago. Light colours determined its interior, cream and yellow tones, which gave the room a hopeful atmosphere despite its heaviness.I passed the carefully painted pictures on which Jesus' life was traced and finally stopped in front of a large lead glass window, which had been set into the wall next to the altar. I passed the carefully painted pictures of the saints on which Jesus' life was traced and finally stopped in front of a large lead glass window, which had been set into the wall next to the altar. Two men could be seen in it. The first, with red curls and green eyes, crouched on the floor, his face distorted with misfortune. The second rested in his arms, eyes closed, blond and angelic. His body was framed by a blue velvet cloth, his chest lay naked and torn open, a white dove on his shoulder. A divine light shone upon them from heaven. The image cast a spell over me and so I moved one step closer. For a reason I did not understand I felt drawn to them, as if they were the force that could understand my suffering and transfer it into peace.</p><p>"Demetrios and Alexander", a voice sounded next to me. I flinched and turned around. The priest stood beside me, his gaze fixed as firmly as kindly on the church window. In the face of my jumpy reaction a soft laughter escaped his throat. "It is a truly beautiful portrayal, and perhaps unique in its nature in our republic." Now he looked at me and I returned his gaze for a moment before turning my attention back to the window.</p><p>"I do not know them," I said.</p><p>"They are the patron saints of brotherly love."</p><p>"So they're brothers?"</p><p>A smile flitted across the priest's face and disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Well, not like that."</p><p>With a frown, I looked at the priest, the shimmer of the blond hair in the dim church light, the glow of his eyes. As if he sensed my curiosity, he continued: "Demetrius served as town governor. He was a rich man and he lacked for nothing. His wife and children loved him, their life was marked by prosperity. He had a deep friendship with Alexander, a soldier. Their bond was as deep and pure as nothing had ever been seen before in their city. It aroused the anger and resentment of their fellow citizens. Soon their envy started spreading malicious rumours about them. Later Demetrios was arrested and accused of a crime he had not committed. Both he and Alexander knew that no sin on their part was responsible for this wrongdoing, only their love for one another. Nevertheless, the situation in which Demetrius found himself was hopeless. People tend to be wicked when they can't understand."</p><p>I nodded. "What happened then?', I asked and noticed in astonishment that my heart had begun to beat faster again.</p><p>"Alexander pleaded guilty to the charges in Demetrios place and was executed. He sacrificed himself so that his friend could live a life in freedom. Unfortunately, Demetrios could not cope with the loss of the other. Before long, he fell ill and died. Nevertheless, it is an exemplary tale about charity and selflessness. It receives too little attention, but that is only my humble opinion."</p><p>The priest searched my eyes and gave me a smile of sincere kindness. Quietly I thanked him for his explanations and looked at the picture one last time, the fine colours cut out of glass, the filigree lead frames.</p><p>"Do you think they were friends, Father?" I suddenly heard myself ask. My voice was strangely loud in the vast nave. "To die for your friend, even though you have a wife and child, seems strangely excessive."</p><p>"Would that matter to you?" asked the priest.</p><p>"No," I said after a while of hesitation."But sometimes I think the Church asks too much of its members."</p><p>"In what way?"</p><p>"All these ideals that a saint could hardly live up to. What is that supposed to bring about people, if not self-hatred and misery? We were created to be likenesses, were we not? Doesn't it also mean that our faults are nothing to be ashamed of?"</p><p>"They just mean that everyone has different prerequisites." The priest lowered his eyes as if he was already mindful of every word that followed. "Nobody says it's easy to obey the commandments. But don't we grow from being challenged? In the end, all that matters is that we follow our path with vigor and steadfastness. The lessons are clear in many cases. It can be uncomfortable, but this is the way to do it. In truth, a man feels in his heart quite clearly what is right and what is wrong."</p><p>In church, it was getting darker by the minute. The clouds outside must have thickened to a black carpet. Not far from us the candles flickered and the sound of raindrops hitting the windows filled the room. Again I looked at the priest. Stunned, I noticed that he had been eyeing me all this time. Calmly his eyes were lying on me and in their blue was burning a fire that did not match their cold. No sooner had our eyes met than he lowered his gaze. Something about his behaviour, the way he spoke to me, the way he looked at me, seemed to be out of harmony with his words addressed to me before.</p><p>"'I'm not sure if you mean what you just said', I said softly when I could not bear the silence any longer. Outside there was thunder. The priest did not answer my question.</p><p>"You did not take communion", he remarked casually and smiled the same smile as before.</p><p>"I've had a lot on my mind today."</p><p>"That was certainly so, yes." The blue eyes rested on my face, the forehead slightly wrinkled, in a mixture of curiosity and concern. I avoided his gaze. "You are always welcome to confession," said the priest, placing one hand on my shoulder, and it sounded as if he was consciously speaking more quietly than usual. I nodded. Then I indicated a curtsey and left this place. Outside it was still raining.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And here we are with another bunch of new chapters. I still have enough for one more month. Apparently I have to hurry up writing. :')</p><p>When I wrote Lend Me Your Summer I used this space to keep a small blog in order to talk about what kept me busy during those days and I would really like to take this up again. I noticed that a lot of people have started picking up Lend Me Your Summer again and there are a lot of new Kudos and comments, which really warmed my heart during the past weeks. Looking back at it now, I can see how my writing has changed. While Lend Me Your Summer was like a light summer breeze, I feel like I'm failing to keep writing thing like that. A certain heaviness has found its way into my writing. I still don't know what to make out of that, but I suppose that's just lifes way of saying that someone is evolving as an author or character. I assume no writing style is better. They just represent different phases of my life. And hell, I was a lot younger and more naive when I wrote Lend Me Your Summer. Back then I wrote it down in one long gasp.<br/>Bauhaus is different. It's really difficult for me to write this story, because this time, the characters are more complex than before. Everyone has its own motivation, its own goals and then there is this huge cultural and political background to take care of. The reasons why Bauhaus feels different than Lend Me Your Summer is the fact that they are set in two different historical times, I think. The 1920s, while having their lighter periods, certainly also had a lot of shadow. People had just survived a war and a pandemic. It affects people. So everyone seems a little more worn down than before.<br/>Also, Lend Me Your Summer had a more linear way of narrating, while Bauhaus is more associative. Right now I don't even know myself where this journey is headed, since I don't want to plot it all out before. I guess it's all more about catching the atmosphere of those days, rather than to construct a plot driven nerve wretching adventure. </p><p>Just a few thoughts I was carrying with me during the past few days. I'm sorry this upload is a few days late. I got vaccinated yesterday and somehow it really knocked me out (I'm fine tho!)</p><p>Stay healthy!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Chapter 37</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The following day the sky cleared up and the heat returned. In an endless, impenetrable blue it stretched over our heads as if the day would last forever. Only occasionally did a cooling breeze blow over the fields and our heads, slipping into our clothes and hair.</p><p>In the morning I had gone to the printers in a desperate attempt to find my way back into creative work, but in vain. No matter what I did, my thoughts went their own ways over and over again. Sometimes they wandered to Farlan, who in the meantime lived in our shared apartment in such a way that I only entered it when it was absolutely necessary. Or they drifted to Erwin, whom I had last seen three weeks ago. Sometimes I thought of the priest and the way his eyes had looked at me last Sunday. Then, at times, it aroused me so much that my pants became tight and I had to interrupt my work in order to take care of myself in an unoccupied toilet cabin.</p><p>By noon the heat had reached such unbearable levels that I could not possibly stay inside these stuffy walls any longer. I packed my things and left. On the way out into the open I met Petra, who, similarly sweaty as I was, was looking for a cool down. Together we got something to eat and strolled out into the park. There we lay, under an oak tree not far from the poet's house, hidden by the high grass and some trees. The splashing of the river Ilm rustled in the background.</p><p>As so often, she wore a dress of white linen on this day, which lay gently around her soft curves and forms. We may have been about the same age, but her body looked very young, almost boyish. In front of her, on the picnic blanket (we had picked it up from her apartment in passing), lay an open book in which she leafed through every now and then. She had strained her gaze on the light-coloured paper, had pushed the nail of her right thumb between her teeth and chewed on it, probably without noticing. Lying on her side, she supported her head on her left. Occasionally a strand of red-blonde hair slipped into her face; usually she let it go.</p><p>Finally she closed the book with a sigh and turned on her back, stretched out until her hands were no longer on the blanket but in the grass.</p><p>"Do you hear that?" she whispered and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. I, arms folded behind my head and dozing in the sun, opened my eyes and looked at her in silence.</p><p>"What exactly?", I asked.</p><p>"The Gods," she replied and began to smile. "On days like this, they come to us and walk among men."</p><p>"On days like this?"</p><p>"Yes. Just look around you. Life blooms. And who but a God loves life?"</p><p>I didn't know what to say. "I don't believe in such things", I finally said and Petra started to laugh. With a sweeping movement she sat up, supported herself on her hands and looked at me with a grin. A knowing shine sparkled in her eyes. "You would have to be blind not to see it, Levi. All that energy, all that fullness - when I close my eyes, it literally runs through me."</p><p>"Imagination," I noted dryly, and reached out for her book. She snatched it away before I could lay my fingers on it and put it aside.</p><p>"Fiddlesticks!" With her index finger in the air, she waved it up and down in rebuke. "Have you never before had an experience that made you believe in the Divine in our world?"</p><p>For a moment I thought. Then I shook my head. "No."</p><p>"No?" She sounded surprised. "But don't you go to church every Sunday?"</p><p>"What does one thing have to do with the other?"</p><p>"But-" She interrupted herself and bit her lip. "That doesn't make sense. I thought you were Catholic?"</p><p>"I am."</p><p>"Don't you believe?"</p><p>I kept quiet. In fact, I had seldom felt more alone than when I sat in my bench on Sunday. It hadn't always been so. A feeling of security had once been where now there was nothing but emptiness. Perhaps, it flashed through my mind, my visits there were nothing more than my search for a lost youth. "I no longer know', I said in a calm voice. "One day I must have lost that belief. I neither know when nor why. I talk as if I believe, but it is probably nothing more than habit. It is as if I suddenly understood something important and now I can never go back to where I once started. Things seem different to me now."</p><p>"Surely you've changed."</p><p>"Probably."</p><p>"Does it grieve you?"</p><p>"No." I took a deep breath and looked up at the endless blue sky. "Not all losses hurt at first. Some only hurt later. Some never do. Occasionally, you don't even realise you've lost something."</p><p>"It seems to me that the unnoticed losses are often the most serious," Petra said in a thoughtful tone. "It can happen that one day you look back and a small action you didn't care about changed your life."</p><p>"That may be so." I picked up a small stone from the ground and threw it into the shimmering waters of the stream. The sound of the impact was swallowed up by its roar. "Did you see it?"</p><p>Petra, who had now folded her arms in front of her bent legs and looked at the trees on the horizon, glanced at me. As she sat there, the light in her eyes was refracted and they sparkled warm and soft like amber. "What?" she asked.</p><p>"The Divine on Earth?"</p><p>She smiled. It seemed so peaceful and sincere that it hit me to the core. I shuddered in silence, even though it was one of the hottest days of the summer. "Often," she said.</p><p>"Tell me about it."</p><p>The smile faded as if she didn't know if she could risk it with me, as if she didn't trust me enough to share her innermost feelings and thoughts. But then she reached out her hand. She put it on mine and stroked the back of my hand with her thumb. Even before I could understand what she was doing there she had already let go of me.</p><p>"My father is a strict man," she began, looking into the distance, towards the horizon, as people did when they did not want others to see the pain in their own eyes. "If I didn't obey his words, he beat me senseless. He has precise ideas about how a woman should live her life. Unfortunately, he didn't expect me to feel the same. We kept clashing. I went out, you know. My brother was in artistic circles in Stockholm, and one day I followed him. Unlike my father, these people saw my true strength. But as things were, one day my father found out. He became furious. He beat me so badly that I couldn't get out of bed for a week. When my brother went out, he locked me in the cellar."</p><p>"What a bastard," I murmured and Petra shrugged.</p><p>"He did what he thought was right, how can I blame him?"</p><p>"You forgave him?"</p><p>"What would I gain by hating him, except my own misfortune? Anyway, just before Oulo was to leave for Weimar, I was on the verge of despair. A life was approaching that I did not want to live. How could I play someone I was not? All hope was lost to me. I wanted to throw myself into the harbor and drown myself. Oulo must have felt that, because one spring afternoon he secretly took me out and into the park. We walked peacefully along our path, talking about this and that, just two siblings spending their last days together, when my gaze touched a tree not far from us. There was no logical reason, but it attracted me in an irresistible way. I left Oulo and walked towards it, unwavering, as if there was no place in the world where I needed to be more urgent at this very moment. When I finally stood before the tree, I understood immediately. It was an old, big grown oak, very imposing, very majestic. But it was not perfect; some time ago lightning must have struck there. One half of the tree lay fallow. It was dead and no longer sprouted. Its branches were bare and gnarled. The left side, however, was the blooming life. At that moment I understood that beauty can come from the worst, and that even if one part of us dies, the rest can come back to life." Now she turned and looked at me. A shy pink had stepped on her cheeks. She looked embarrassed.</p><p>"You saw something godlike in this?"</p><p>"The tree spoke to me," she said with a calm naturalness. "I sensed a deep connection to myself and my environment. It gave me the strength and inspiration to walk with my brother. So if you ask me like that, then, yes, I believe there was something Divine dwelling in it. I think a person can only be completely alive when he manages to connect with his environment, with the people around him, with nature and the spaces he lives in. Of course I could pursue my art in a quiet little room, but working in the metal workshop brings me into contact with life, with the people out there. By concentrating on the craft aspect and creating works in which people can find themselves, I become a part of their lives and thus, in a way, one with them; I become immortal, if you like. That too is something Divine. Not that we women and men here are considered equal, it is not so. There are some people in powerful positions who know how to prevent that. Progress can only be made at a certain pace. If it comes too fast, people won't follow. That is life. A hundred years from now, men and women will act as equals, I'm sure of it. All it takes is a little more time." She laughed. "But this is going too far now."</p><p>"Understand," I said, though I wasn't sure I really understood. Now that she had finished her story, Petra looked around. "There are hardly any people here," she said with satisfaction. We had found a secluded place, protected from the eyes of randomly passing pedestrians. "And the telling heated me up." With these words she pulled the dress over her head and dropped it. I had just opened my mouth for a follow-up question, but immediately closed it again, my eyes fixed on her, her white, flawless skin, her slender arms and small breasts. She stood before me, wearing little more than a pair of white panties, so calm and confident, as if she was fully dressed. Never before had I experienced a woman who seemed so at peace with her body.</p><p>"What are you doing?" I finally said.</p><p>Petra raised her hands without understanding. "I don't know what you're doing," she said with a laugh, "but I'm going for a swim." And she was gone.</p><p> </p><p>She didn't mind that I was looking at her, so I didn't see the point of devoting my attention to another, less attractive aspect of the landscape. Had I brought my sketchbook with me, I might have drawn her. Nevertheless, and I was aware of this: those tiny details that caught my attention, the little water drops on her body sparkling like diamonds, the stringy, red-blonde hair on her freckled cheeks - I could hardly have done them right so quickly.</p><p>The question arose in me as to what it would feel like to touch her. But I rejected the thought when she came back to the shared blanket cheerfully and with springy steps. "A cool down would not have done you any harm", she laughed, while she took her dress and pulled it over her head again. She let herself sink to the floor next to me and looked at me with an urge, her knees bent, her thighs slightly spread. As I lowered my gaze, I noticed the lace trimmed hem of her underwear. I let my gaze linger there for a moment, then looked up and straight into her face. I was aware of what kind of game she was playing with me, but it didn't bother me. Thinking about the past weeks, every distraction came in handy.</p><p>In the high grass behind us it rushed, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. I turned around; a smile was stealing on my lips. It was Eld and Gunther.</p><p>"Well, you lazy bunch of rags," cried Eld, and ran his hand through the stringy pomaded blond hair. "Why aren't you at the atelier making your fingers bloody?"</p><p>"The same could be asked of you," Petra exclaimed, who now stood up and embraced the two of them. I shook their hands, but otherwise met them with the usual reserve.</p><p>"Way too hot, way too hot," Eld replied. "You can't stand it, the air is practically flickering."</p><p>Gunther nodded. "Mind if we join you?" Nobody objected. Seconds later our legs were in the grass, our backs on the blanket, heads together. Only Gunther remained seated. He rolled out cigarette after cigarette and handed them around. Little while later everybody was smoking.</p><p>"Were you out hunting again?" Petra asked and pointed to a red bandage Eld wore around the arm of his jacket. He shrugged his shoulders.</p><p>"Yes, but the prey was poor."</p><p>"Gee, Eld, you know damn well you can't do that. If you're going to hunt brown shirts, at least keep a low profile as far as your policies are concerned."</p><p>"Tell him, sister," Gunther threw in from the side, while moistening a cigarette with his tongue and then closing it. "I tell him every day: Eld, politically active students get expelled, you wouldn't be the first to go, it's not worth it, and so on and so forth. These are rhetorical pearls I regularly cast before swines here, the guy just doesn't listen to me."</p><p>"Oh, shut up," Eld grumbled and raised his hand defensively. "The truth is that most hearts beat on the left at the Bauhaus, even in the executive offices. It's not my problem if these guys can't manage to hold on to their views."</p><p>"It's all about the money," I interfered, "and the politicians on the money pot are more to the right of the centre."</p><p>"It's always about money." Eld lit himself a cigarette. "That's the fucking problem. Is it just me or are the brown shirts getting more and more every day?" Gunther also put a cigarette between his lips and took a deep drag while Eld continued. "I'd like to give them a thrashing to remember, believe me."</p><p>"Aren't you doing that already?" I sighed, but nobody reacted. The fact that in his spare time Eld had already started a few fights with party members was no secret.</p><p>"You can't get rid of the feeling that we at the Bauhaus are consistently being watched by them," Gunther agreed with him in a sad tone. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a flask from which he took a larger gulp. He held it in the round, but everyone shook his head.</p><p>"The election results have made them feel secure." I took one of the cigarettes, lit it, and after the first drag, I let it rest between my fingers, looking up at the sky. I had my left arm crossed behind my head, my right foot resting casually on my left bent knee. "They know that they no longer need to be ashamed to perform in public."</p><p>"As if they had ever been ashamed of it," grumbled Gunther. "How can a human being be free to express himself when these reactionary pigs rattle around you with their chains? I agree with you Eld, I just want to make it clear that we must be on our guard." He sighed. "Truly, this is not what I came here for then."</p><p>"Who knows, maybe soon you won't have to anyway," I murmured and slipped the cigarette between my lips.</p><p>"What does that mean?" Gunther dropped the flask.</p><p>"Maybe the Bauhaus will cease to exist?"</p><p>"Nonsense," everyone shouted.</p><p>"It's true. Do you think Gropius wants to spend the rest of his life dealing with those bureaucrats from the State Parliament? They've long since cut off the Bauhaus funding, it's only a matter of time before we pull up stakes and leave."</p><p>Eld, who had taken the flask from Gunther and brought it to his lips, hesitated, and nearly choked on his alcohol. "Say, friend, you're not knowing any more than we do, are you?"</p><p>"I don't know anything," I replied and quietly bit my lower lip. "I'm just talking in general."</p><p>"Did Schmidt tell you something?" Gunther seemed alarmed. "Is that why Gropius summoned him to Weimar?"</p><p>"As I said," I growled and sat up. With a deft gesture, I took the flask off Eld and drank. "I know nothing. Just ask him yourself when he gets back from Leipzig."</p><p>Eld frowned. Gunther, on the other hand, burst into loud laughter. "He's right," he called out, patting Eld on the shoulder. "Look at that fool. He really knows nothing. Tell me, Levi, do you live behind the moon? Sometimes I really feel like you live in a world of your own."</p><p>"What did you just say?" I replied. Increasingly, I felt like I no longer knew what was going on. "What's going on?"</p><p>"Schmidt has been back in Weimar for a week. You of all people should know that, being his assistant and all." Gunther shook his head like he couldn't believe it. I didn't pay any attention to him. All of a sudden a sack spread in the pit of my stomach, filling me with nausea. "He's back?" I asked, struggling to hold my breath.</p><p>"You are a dreamer." Eld brought the flask to his lips and drank. "I bet it's been a week, hasn't it?"</p><p>"At least a week." Gunther nodded.</p><p>I looked at Petra. The look in her eyes was enough. She had known it too.</p><p>"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked everyone, trying to hide the rising rage in my voice.</p><p>"We thought you already knew," Eld said. "As I said, as his assistant and all."</p><p>"Of course." I closed my eyes and reached out to my face, unnerved. My head was spinning. How could it be that Erwin had been back for a week, in this tiny, modest town, without our paths having crossed even once?</p><p>Of course I knew what that meant. It was damningly obvious. Bloody bastard.</p><p>"Levi?" Petra's voice brought me back to reality. I opened my eyes and looked at her. She watched me with a mixture of insecurity and worry. "Is everything all right?"</p><p>"Of course", I replied, pressing my lips together and forcing a smile on my face. The hand in which I held my cigarette clenched into a fist. "Probably just busy."</p><p>"Yes, don't get upset." Gunther held the flask out to me. "If he doesn't call, it means he doesn't have any work for you right now. More time to focus on your graduation project. There's something to that, isn't there?"</p><p>"Whatever." I took the flask out of Gunther's hand and drank, drank until my throat started to hurt. Then I fought my way back to my feet. "Anyway, I gotta go," I said, licking my burning lips.</p><p>"Forgot your cigarette case in the atelier again?" Eld said and everyone laughed. I hinted at a thin smile. But my eyes remained cold.</p><p>"Something like that," I said and turned to walk, but paused as soon as I took two steps. Supposedly calmly I turned around and nodded to Petra.</p><p>"Who's going to the Midsummer Festival with you?", I asked.</p><p>"Nobody yet."</p><p>"Shall we go together?"</p><p>Gunther and Eld began to howl. Petra's eyes, on the other hand, widened. It was one of the few moments when the image of strengh she so carefully nurtured gave way to honest surprise. Finally, she smiled. "Gladly."</p><p>"All right." I smoked the cigarette and flicked the stub into the river. "I see you there."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Chapter 38</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Tell me how you party and I'll tell you who you are." Farlan took a deep breath and placed his hand meaningfully on my shoulder. His eyes sparkled, and although they were still bloodshot, he seemed cheerful and awake. No matter how absorbed Farlan had been in his work phases for the last few weeks - a party, especially in summer, he would not miss under any circumstances.</p><p>"That's from Schlemmer", I sighed and shook my head. "At least find your own damn quotes." Oskar Schlemmer, once a freelance artist and creative multi-talent, now managed the stage workshop at the Bauhaus after several stopovers in other departments.</p><p>"Ah, details!" cried Farlan, let his hand slide off my shoulder and winked at Petra, who then laughed her typical bell-like laughter. That evening she wore a cream-coloured dress with narrow, dark pink stripes, which I had never seen on her before.</p><p>Now we were standing at the entrance of a fenced red brick house with dark gables, at the front of which the letters "RESTAURANT ILMSCHLÖßCHEN" were emblazoned in large letters. It was not as hot as it had been during the past weeks, but it was still warm enough. The air tasted of floral fragrance and life, was humid and so heavy that a breath of wind only brought a fleeting cooling. From the garden, still hidden by fence and bushes, the wild sounds sounded to us, clarinet, trumpet, drums, banjo and, perhaps, trombone.</p><p> </p><p>Involuntarily I reached for my tie. With great effort and distress I had tied it not one hour before. Both Farlan and I wore our best clothes, of such high quality that I usually reserved them for the church: a dark suit, a tie of the same colour and matching, freshly polished shoes. In contrast, a dark red bow tie adorned Farlan's neck, matching the cream tone of his linen suit. One had to stand out from the crowd, he had mumbled over and over again, while he had almost twisted his fingers trying to tie it.</p><p>With eyebrows raised, Farlan glanced at the narrow watch on his wrist. "Just before nine," he said, sounding satisfied. According to the official starting time, we were two hours late, but, as Farlan had previously emphasized, if you show up somewhere on time, you just prove that you have nothing better to do. Again he patted me on the shoulder and turned away. "Let's go in", he shouted and had already disappeared with big steps in the foyer. I exchanged a look with Petra, who smiled at me mischievously. Then we nodded to each other and followed Farlan inside.</p><p>The Ilmschlößchen looked hardly more spectacular from the inside than from the outside: dark floors, wood-panelled walls, the usual unadorned wooden furniture with which apparently all the restaurants of the Republic had been equipped. Framed photographs and art prints hung here and there. An earthen tiled stove provided cosiness, but of course it was not in use that evening, due to the season. Strangely empty, the taproom stretched out before us. No one was to be seen; not even in that corner where Petra and I had danced together at that time. For a moment I felt strangely lost.</p><p>"I guess they'll already be in the garden," Petra said next to me and I nodded.</p><p>"Probably." Without looking at her, I pulled my purse out of my pocket. "I'll get us something to drink. What do you want?"</p><p>We looked at each other, and her big brown eyes wandered amusedly sparkling across my face. "Surprise me," she whispered, and poked her elbow into my side. I turned to Farlan, who was standing near the bar, his hands buried in his pockets. "What about you?"</p><p>He tilted his head to one side. A smile came over his lips. "Surprise me," he also whispered (though with more sarcasm) and pursed his lips into a kiss in the air.</p><p>"Good grief," I sighed, "I hereby declare you both absolutely useless."</p><p>Laughter. Afterwards Farlan approached us and placed his arm around Petra's shoulder with his typical exuberance. With a jerk, he pulled her towards him. "If the gentleman doesn't mind, we'll be outside in the meantime," he grinned and winked at me. "You know, examine the situation at the front line and all that."</p><p>"Yeah, sure." I snorted. Then I turned away and walked toward the counter. Only out of the corner of my eye did I notice Petra leaving the barroom in Farlan's tow. I leaned against the bar, which seemed strangely deserted, because apart from a few damp glasses right next to the sink, nothing showed the presence of a host. In this way I waited there until after a few minutes the door to the garden opened. For a moment the sound of cheerfulness and laughter sloshed in, then it became quiet again. A young woman entered the room. She was wearing a blouse and skirt, hidden under a white apron, her dark brown curly hair no more than chin-length. She held a tray in her hand, which she placed sweepingly on the counter. Behind the counter she took up her position. Without paying attention to me, she dried the glasses and put them away. Only then she turned to me. At the moment when her eyes were fixed on me, I tensed involuntarily. As if she was not sure whether she liked what she saw, she looked at me extensively from top to bottom. Then she laid her head back on her neck and crossed her arms in front of her chest.</p><p>"Come on, what's it going to be?" she said in a full, dark voice that hardly suited her youthful figure.</p><p>"Where is the owner?", I asked, even before the words had passed my thoughts. The Ilmschlößchen belonged to a guy of about fifty years, who normally also took care of the hospitality of his guests.</p><p>"Sick," she replied, briefly tied up, and swung the towel with which she had dried the glasses before, over her shoulder with a casual movement. "You'll have to make do with me." She clicked her tongue. Her eyes flashed, half amused, half rebellious. "So what's it going to be?"</p><p>"Two surprises and a beer."</p><p>She didn't move. Faced with my unusual order, she just stared at me as if she was wondering if I was playing a joke on her. But after staring back blankly for a while, she shrugged. "Whatever you say," she said and went to work. Not five minutes later I paid and entered, two glasses with unknown contents and a beer in my hands, the garden.</p><p>Actually, it was exaggerated to speak of a garden, it was, strictly spoken, an inner courtyard, as one could often find in such inns. But the numerous potted plants that framed the courtyard must have given it this exaggerated nickname. It was square and measured barely twenty metres in length and width. On the left, the fence framed it and at the same time protected us from the curious glances of passers-by. On the right and opposite side, neighbouring houses closed off the yard. Here and there we found rectangular tables with four chairs each; most of them already occupied by students and masters. They resembled us in their appearance, wearing light suits, pomade in their hair or airy, barely knee-length dresses. Most of them were engrossed in conversation with each other. Now and then they sipped their drinks and laughed. In a corner not far from the fence, banjo, trumpet, trombone or clarinet in hand, the small band consisting of Bauhaus students. They played a mixture of jazz and arbitrary improvisations, which on closer listening turned out to be variations of common folk songs, exuberant and unconventional. Old things that were thought in a new way shot through my head, but how much old remained when you constantly thought everything new?</p><p>I let my gaze wander further. On the tables and on a crooked tree in the middle of the courtyard hung paper lanterns in which candles were burning; remnants of Gropius' birthday only a few weeks before. Under the tree itself there was also a small wooden box, as if it had been put there and then forgotten.</p><p>All of a sudden, not far from me, the social interaction of a group of people close to me exploded; screeching laughter abruptly tore me out of my thoughts. I turned around and looked over to the source of the noise. Five people stood there. In their midst: Farlan. Obviously he was in good spirits and as usual, people were at his feet. He had already taken off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt up to above the elbows. Next to him, an amused smile on his lips, stood Petra, surrounded by Eld, Gunther and Oulo. I went to them. They greeted me in their rows with a slight nod of their heads. Apart from that, the cordiality was limited, for as it turned out, Farlan was sharing a tale from his life.</p><p>"So she gets furious," he said in a voice heavy with meaning, "and begins to shout: 'What are you doing in my closet?!', to which I calmly reply: 'You must forgive me, madam, it seems to me that I must have taken a wrong turn on the way to the revolution. Then she grabs me by the collar - still only in my underwear, you must know, and with a strength like twenty bears. I thought I was going to die."</p><p>"What happened then?", urged Eld, who, in view of the heat still prevailing, had sweat on his forehead. "Tell me!"</p><p>Farlan paused for a moment. He took turns looking for the eyes of his audience. Then, suddenly, he raised both hands apologetically. "She threw me out. The whole house was on the doorstep, so much raving and shouting."</p><p>"Did you get the pictures anyway?" A wide grin appeared on Eld's lips and was answered just as broadly by Farlan.</p><p>"Sure thing."</p><p>"Does she know that?" asked Gunther, who had wrinkled his forehead.</p><p>I handed the glasses to Farlan and Petra. Farlan didn't pay any attention to me. Heated as he was, he just took a big sip and immediately continued: "She found them by chance when she visited my room. Without saying anything, she tore off my clothes and threw me onto the bed. You cannot imagine how confused I was! Is she turned on now?, I wondered. Or angry? Or both?"</p><p>"Are you telling again how you got together with Isabel?", I asked dryly from the side and took a sip of beer.</p><p>"Certainly." Farlan raised his glass and toasted me. "Entertaining stories must be told, mate, otherwise what good are they?"</p><p>"Hear, hear!" cried the group and raised the glasses to the sky. I looked for the eyes of Eld. He seemed to think the same as me. After another big sip, I turned away from Farlan and walked over to him. I pointed to his jacket, in the pocket of which the tip of a small, blue cover was sticking out. "Reading again?", I asked and Eld nodded. He pulled out the book and handed it to me. With one hand I turned it around so that I could look at it from all sides. The title and author had been embossed in big gold letters on the cover.</p><p>"Trakl?" I asked, and Gunther nodded. "Never heard of it."</p><p>"Poet," Eld said, lighting a cigarette. He held the pack out to me and I took one. After he handed me a light, we smoked in silence.</p><p>"A contemporary?"</p><p>"Born in '87."</p><p>"Worth reading?"</p><p>"Yes. But you should be warned, this guy had serious issues. Killed himself with cocaine a bunch of years ago."</p><p>I laughed and flicked the ashes to the floor. "I would have been surprised if it had been different. Lend it to me sometime. I'm long since through with Benn."</p><p>"Actually, I finished it on the way over here earlier. But as for the Benn..."</p><p>"I'll bring it over on Monday." I pointed to the blue book. "If you give me that one in return."</p><p>It made Eld burst out laughing. "Are you serious? First you embezzle my books and then you make demands?"</p><p>"That's the way to do it," I replied with a smile.</p><p>"Bastard." Now we both laughed. Shaking his head, Eld gave me the book. "Monday."</p><p>"You bet", I said.</p><p>"Damn Levi," Farlan yelled in the background. "What the devil have you brought me?" He pointed to the glass in which a greenish liquid was sloshing back and forth.</p><p>"No good?", I asked with my eyebrows raised.</p><p>"You must be joking." Suddenly Farlan was beside me, wrapped his arm around my neck and pressed me firmly against his chest for a few seconds. "This is the best hooch I've ever had. What is it?"</p><p>I shrugged my shoulders. "You wanted a surprise, you got it."</p><p>My words swept the smile off Farlan's face. "What?" His voice suddenly lacked tone.</p><p>"I don't know what's in there."</p><p>Fiercely and unexpectedly, Farlan slapped his flat hand across his forehead. "Dude, you gotta be kidding me!"</p><p>We stared at each other in awe.</p><p>"You're unbelievable," cried Farlan. "Tell me how you got through life without me for so long."</p><p>"Is that a rhetorical question?" But Farlan had already turned away.</p><p>"Hey, where are you going?", I yelled after him.</p><p>"Where do you think?!", Farlan hissed, turning his back on me once more. "Inside!"</p><p>The beer still in my hand, I looked after him. Seconds later the door to the taproom slammed shut behind him.</p><p>"There he goes", sighed Petra, who had seen it all.</p><p>"Yes", I agreed with her and could not help but grin. "That's him."</p><p>Then the band started a new song, more swing this time, and less folksy. Lost in thought, I looked to the dance floor, where until then only a few couples had moved to the music, watching the people around me once more. "Have you noticed that none of the masters is here?" There was no trace of Erwin either.</p><p>"I'm sure they'll come," Petra replied and drank her glass. "They're probably still sitting together somewhere, enjoying the calm before the storm."</p><p>"Possibly." I finished my beer and took the glass out of her hand. "Do you want to dance?</p><p>She smiled at me; that was consent enough. Quickly I placed glass and beer bottle on a table nearby, grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor. Soon we formed a unity in rhythmic movement - the bodies in harmony, the vibration of the music in every fibre of our limbs. We stayed there for three songs, then we ran out of breath and moved to the edge. Petra's face glowed heatedly in the evening light, and a thin layer of sweat covered her chest. Breathing heavily, she stroked a strand behind her ear. Meanwhile I looked around for Farlan, but there was still no sign of him.</p><p>"This can't be true", I sighed, "where is that guy all the time?"</p><p>Petra laughed beside me.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"To be honest, I'm not surprised you don't have a girlfriend."</p><p>I returned her gaze questioningly.</p><p>"You're already married to a man."</p><p>If I'd held my beer glass in my hands, it would have slipped out of mine. Blood rushed into my face and within seconds it felt hotter than before. When she saw my reaction, Petra laughed louder. She raised her hands and waved away.</p><p>"I mean Farlan!", she shouted and the tension fell away from me.</p><p>"Of course," I murmured and looked at our empty drinks. How I would have loved a sip.</p><p>"What did you think?"</p><p>"Nothing much," I said and smiled. "I just didn't quite understand you, that's all."</p><p>So I leaned my back against the wall of the house and breathed. I could still feel the pulse pounding in my temples, I was so hot. I silently straightened my out of shape hairstyle by sliding my fingers through my hair several times, as if with a comb. Petra, who stood next to me, watched the others dance.</p><p>"Did you come to the Bauhaus together?" she finally asked.</p><p>"Farlan and I?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>I shook my head. "We both needed something to live in, and chance brought us together. So far, we're doing quite well." I paused for a moment. "It's important to have each other's backs."</p><p>"Definitely."</p><p>"Let's see if we can keep in touch once we're done here," I continued, trying to block out the droning rhythms of the band to get my thoughts in order. "The only thing missing from both of us is the graduation project. Then:" I raised both hands and let them, stretched out in front of me, wander outwards. "Freedom."</p><p>"I'd like to teach as a master in one of the workshops when I'm as far advanced as you, but I don't think it'll work out."</p><p>"Why shouldn't it?" I returned in astonishment. "You're talented and hard-working."</p><p>"Well." She raised her hand and waved it off. "Like minds of equals always like to come together. There's no room for outsiders." And that seemed to end the subject for her. "What about you? What's going to happen to you when you're done here?"</p><p>With a blank expression on my face, I shrugged. "I don't know."</p><p>"Will you stay in Weimar?"</p><p>I looked at her in silence. Then I let my eyes drift to the ground and remained still. In my thoughts flashed Gropius' study, the model of the new main building and Erwin's serious, thoughtful face. The Bauhaus would be moved to Dessau, he had said.</p><p>I lifted my head and looked at Petra undaunted. "There's no future for us in Weimar," I said calmly. Petra seemed irritated. Her previously friendly expression faded.</p><p>"I understand," she murmured hesitantly and averted her gaze from me. I did not believe her.</p><p>In this way we remained silent for an indefinite time until Petra suddenly grabbed me by the upper arm and pointed in the direction of the door.</p><p>"Levi, look!" she shouted. I followed her finger pointing and saw a wooden frame being carried into the yard by a group of young men. Most of them I knew only fleetingly, if at all, but the rest began to cheer and jeer. A few meters away, under the tree decorated with lanterns, someone opened the box and took out some dolls, one of them more colorful and abstract than the one before. But instead of rejoicing, I straightened up and turned to walk.</p><p>"Where are you going?", Petra asked in amazement. I pointed to our drinks.</p><p>"I ran out of beer."</p><p>She smiled, but it seemed more feeble than at the beginning of the evening. "Alright", she whispered and let go of me.</p><p>I quickly crossed the dance floor and entered the bar shortly afterwards. Inside, I met Farlan, who stood at the bar, grinning blissfully and chatting with the brunette landlady. No sooner had he seen me than Farlan grabbed me by the shoulder with enthusiasm and shouted my name in my ear. His cheeks glowed reddishly.</p><p>"How did you manage to get so drunk in such a short time?" I asked. Farlan didn't go into it.</p><p>"Levi, this is Lollo. Say hello."</p><p>"Hello," I said, and put glass and beer bottle on the counter. The landlady looked at me again with the same tactile expression as before. She took the bottle and glass.</p><p>"Another one?", she asked. I nodded and she started to tap.</p><p>"Lollo works here", said Farlan.</p><p>"Oh, really?"</p><p>"Really!" Farlan slapped the counter with his flat hand. "Say, for how long again?"</p><p>"For three years," cried Lollo, who had just turned her back on us.</p><p>"She's a burning hot advocate of the semi-dry rosé," Farlan continued, giving me a meaningful look. "Do you understand?", he whispered. "Semi-dry. Rosé."</p><p>"To be honest, I don't understand anything," I returned.</p><p>"Gee, Levi." Farlan rolled his eyes as if he suddenly realised he had been sharing his flat with an idiot for years. "He has the lightness of white wine and the full-bodied aroma of red." Farlan laughed. "Above all, you don't have fuzz on your tongue in the morning."</p><p>"Since when do you know about red wine?" I was thinking of our pathetically ill-equipped kitchen.</p><p>"Since always!" Farlan staggered and looked out of the corner of his eye at Lollo. He pulled me to him with a violent grip. "Help me out here, damn it. One for all and all for one, right?</p><p>"Sure," I sighed and wriggled myself out of his grip. "Rosé then?"</p><p>"Yes." Farlan leaned back and stretched his head towards Lollo's. "I thought I was all alone in the world with this opinion," he then said louder than it should have been. I watched him in silence. He could not be serious.</p><p>What about Isabel?, I formed with my lips, but only got a nasty look. "You certainly are soulmates," I said without any enthusiasm in my voice. Shortly afterwards, Lollo put the drinks down. This time my beer also sloshed back and forth in a glass. I opened my mouth, but she stopped me immediately.</p><p>"Forget the stuff in the bottles," she smiled and bent over the counter to me. "Your friend is quite a talker," she whispered into my ear.</p><p>"The biggest," I said.</p><p>"The best," Farlan shouted, so loud that I shrugged beside him. Lollo laughed. Then I pulled out my wallet and paid. As I walked, I put my hand on Farlan's shoulder, then I went back into the garden, where most of the people had now gathered around the puppet stage and listened intently. In the meantime the band had moved on to pure improvisation and had tuned into the puppet theatre accordingly: Muted, carried, not very harmonious sounds filled the air.</p><p>I saw a small, silver figure in the middle of the stage, with large, surprisingly round eyes and round red lips, making straightforward, barely human movements. It wore a balloon-shaped skirt that split into individual columns like a sliced lemon whenever it moved.</p><p>Petra sat on the ground not far from the tree and followed the performance with a smile. She winked at me as I squatted next to her.</p><p>"Did you find Farlan?"</p><p>"Yes. And no."</p><p>She looked at me questioningly.</p><p>"I guess we won't be seeing much more of him tonight."</p><p>"What? Why?"</p><p>We looked at each other, and she understood. I handed her the glass that she brought to her lips with a grin. As she did, she lowered herself toward me and our shoulders touched. The smell of her hair filled my nose. A mixture of her and flowers, sweet and inviting. For a moment I thought of our first meeting; she had seemed wild and untamable, quite different from that evening. I pointed with a nod of my head towards the stage.</p><p>"What is given?"</p><p>"Nothing specific. They're obviously just playing." There was a smile in her voice. "Like children."</p><p>Silently, I watched the puppeteers, the smiling faces of the audience, and with each breath I took, I absorbed the detached mood further.</p><p>"The masters have arrived in the meantime", Petra said after a while and pointed to a table not far from the fence. "At least Klee and Gropius. You will not have seen them; they came through the garden gate."</p><p>"When was that?"</p><p>"Shortly after you went in. Shall we go and greet them?"</p><p>"Wait."</p><p>I looked over at the table and there they were. Each of them had something to drink in front of them and was absorbed in conversation with students who had gathered around them. I quickly brought the beer to my lips and took a big sip. Lollo was right - the stuff from the bottles could not compete with freshly tapped beer. With the back of my hand I wiped the foam off my upper lip and was about to get up, as I noticed something out of the corner of my eye that made me stop. As if by magic, I turned my head towards the stool. My fingers closed tighter around my beer. The door leading to the inside of the taproom had been opened once more. A group of four newcomers stepped out into the garden. At their head, wearing a light linen suit with a sea-blue tie: Erwin, engrossed in a conversation with a young woman whose hair she had combed back with pomade and who was wearing more jewellery than one normally would see in this rural region. They were followed by a tall, hooked-nosed man with ash-blond hair and moustache, further a person with distinctive features, glasses, shirt, knickerbockers, also long, pinned-up hair and unidentifiable gender. Erwin paid no attention to his surroundings. Instead, he exchanged verbal blows with his ash-blonde companion, which repeatedly amused the entire group. A relaxed smile adorned his lips and the ice-blue eyes, which I had experienced at that time in Gropius' office almost emotionless and tactile, shone cheerfully.</p><p>The group looked around curiously. Hooked nose pointed to the puppet theatre and asked Erwin something, since he answered with a slight nod and lots of gestures.</p><p>It did not take long before Erwin discovered both Gropius and Klee. This was no surprise, the two drew attention to themselves by shouting loudly. Unable to move, I watched them sit down at the table with the masters. Hands were shaken and shoulders were patted, jokes were made and laughter was heard. All of a sudden I felt so sick that I would have loved to pour my beer into the sand next to me.</p><p>"There's Schmidt," Petra called the obvious, "but who are the others?"</p><p>"No idea," I murmured and forced myself to take another sip. As if from nowhere, my heart had begun to beat violently. I felt hot. I involuntarily grabbed my neck and loosened the tie, which was suddenly much too tight. Then Petra put her hand on mine and stood up. Although she tried to pull me up on my legs, I remained squatting, obviously perplexed by her surprising departure. My beer sloshed back and forth in the glass. Finally it poured over the rim onto the floor.</p><p>"Let's go over and greet him. You know him better than any other student here." She winked at me with these words.</p><p>"I don't want to."</p><p>"What? Why not?" She seemed upset.</p><p>"I don't feel like it." My voice sounded rough and sour. I drank again. My movements must have seemed strangely agitated because Petra shook her head indulgently.</p><p>"Goodness, you're still angry with him for not getting in touch with you."</p><p>"Maybe."</p><p>"He was probably just busy, like the rest of us. The masters are workaholic through the bank away. Don't make a fuss and come."</p><p>So she let go of me and went ahead. For a few seconds I looked after her, not sure what to do. My first impulse was to pour the beer into Erwin's face, grab him by the collar and demand an explanation - although this seemed not very wise in this context. I decided to follow Petra, but to stay in the background until the opportunity for a discussion arose, and stood up. Slowly I approached the group and positioned myself in the second row, diagonally behind Erwin. In the meantime Eld and Gunther had joined the group. Their cheeks shone in a drunken red. The mood seemed heated; most of them had raised their eyebrows in tense interest and held their glasses tightly. Gunter led the floor.</p><p>„... Anyway, he then undressed and sat model for us," he said and the group began to cheer. Some clapped their hands. Grinning, Klee raised his glass and drank. Gropius shook his head and said something over the table to Erwin.</p><p>His spectacle-bearing companion leaned over to him and grabbed him indignantly by the upper arm. "You cannot be serious," that person cried, half indignant, half laughing, and from her voice I concluded that it was probably a woman. "Of all the people in the world, you sat model?"</p><p>"Twice even," Erwin replied, with a mischievous smile on the corners of his mouth. "I'm not as conservative as you always portray me, Hanji."</p><p>"I don't believe it." She grabbed her head. "Why haven't you ever done this for me?"</p><p>"Because you don't paint, that's why," he shouted, and everyone laughed. Not me. I silently put my glass to my lips and drank. Every now and then I'd look at the door leading inside the house. At that moment I would have given a lot to get Farlan out of Lollo's hands, knowing that I could only fail at that.</p><p>"Must be a remnant from your time with the army," Hanji continued. She spoke so quickly that it was difficult to follow her. "As soon as your kind is being ordered around, you jump."</p><p>"Do you hear that?" said the hooked nose, who now exchanged a telling look with Erwin. "It's outrageous what a soldier has to justify himself for these days." But Erwin waved.</p><p>"It wasn't an order. Klee will confirm that. It was nothing less than sheer necessity."</p><p>"Of course." The blonde lit a cigarette. Her face was heart-shaped and had harmonious features. Her appearance reminded me of the porcelain dolls of noble daughters. Although her dress was as plain as the others present, the jewellery she wore announced a wealth that no longer needed to be displayed. Everything about her, the way she held the tip of her cigarette, the way she spoke and moved implied that our worlds had to be fundamentally different.</p><p>She took a puff from her cigarette and blew the smoke into the air. "That sounds like a sudden shortage of eligible ladies."</p><p>"In fact," said Klee, whose face showed subtle amusement, "the intended lady broke away sick. Herr Schmidt agreed to step in. Only then did the students find out about his teaching position in Weimar."</p><p>"If this isn't some way to break the ice," Hooked Nose smiled in an attempt to wind Erwin up.</p><p>"Be quiet, Mike," he wiped his objection aside with a wave of his hand.</p><p>"Did it work?", asked the blonde.</p><p>"Absolutely," Erwin replied.</p><p>"Always unpredictable, the good Erwin Schmidt."</p><p>"My stepping in was an act of solidarity, nothing more. That's the Zeitgeist, Nana."</p><p>"War used to be the Zeitgeist, too." With her thumb, she tapped the end of her cigarette holder and disposed of the ashes.</p><p>"If that didn't turn dark quite quickly," Mike murmured and drank his beer.</p><p>"Say, Petra", Gunter began, "what's your opinion on the whole matter? You'll take the evening classes too, don't you?"</p><p>I looked at her. Up to now she had only stood mutely in between and listened without showing any signs of getting involved in the conversation. She shook her head, "Sorry, but no. Levi does, though." Then she raised her hand and pointed at me. It went right through me.</p><p>Gunter grinned. "All right. Levi Ackermann, who claims to believe in nothing: What is your opinion on this whole matter? It was a debut, a drawing lesson that will be talked about for a long time, that much is certain."</p><p>"My opinion is that you behave like a blabbermouth and give too much importance to banalities," I gloomily folded my arms in front of my chest. Nana snorted approvingly, while Gunter looked obviously upset. He turned to Erwin. "Would you say you're a man of solidarity, Herr Schmidt?"</p><p>For a moment, I looked at Erwin. He didn't move. Quietly, he looked at the table as if all this no longer had anything to do with him. The smell of his aftershave crawled up my nose. It felt strangely familiar, as if I suddenly remembered a long forgotten dream. The fine scar on his forehead, so pale that it could only be seen up close, gave me the urge to touch it. It spoke to me.</p><p>"Why did you do this to me?" I said suddenly and they all fell silent.</p><p>Only now did Erwin raise his head and looked at me. His eyes glowed in the light of the setting sun. For a seemingly endless period of time, no one said anything. Then he stretched out his hand and laid it flat on my stomach. "Because I want you," he whispered, his voice fragile with regret and desire. "Because every waking second of my life is driven by the desire to lose myself in you."</p><p>He let his hand move gently over my croch. A shiver ran down my spine and my breath began to tremble. With a finger pointing, Erwin indicated to the others to wait and let the hand slide under my shirt, penetrated my skin and pushed it into my chest. It did not hurt. Finally his hand closed around my heart. With every beat it brushed against his fingertips. I trembled at his touch.</p><p>"Will you never understand?" he asked in a low voice. "The glasses float." And I turned my eyes back to the table, and behold, they were really floating.</p><p>Gunther turned to Erwin. "Would you say you're a man of solidarity, Herr Schmidt?"</p><p>Erwin smiled, but it was tactile. "Within my means, certainly," he said.</p><p>I took a deep breath. The beer in my glass had begun to shake. Or was it me that was shaking?</p><p>I tore myself away from the group, turned away and passed Petra. "This is ridiculous", I hissed in her ear, "let's go."</p><p>"I'd like to stay." She just looked at me out of the corner of her eye. For a second or two more I stared at her, hoping she would join me. Then I turned away with a sigh and drank my beer in one gulp to have it refilled in the taproom. Afterwards, in my frustration, I strolled through the courtyard, chatted with one or two acquaintances, but was unable to find my way back. Finally, I sat down on the stairs to the right of the entrance door leading down to the cellar and drank my beer. From a distance I looked at the people who often seemed close to me, but much more often far away, and asked myself what it was that separated us. What was the reason why I always had the feeling that an invisible wall stood between us? The people there in their needs and desires could not have been stranger to me.</p><p>Occasionally I still looked at the door, hoping that Farlan would show himself, but as no one came, I watched the cheerful little cluster that had formed around Erwin instead. Eventually I placed the glass beside me and looked up into the sky. In the meantime the twilight had begun. Dark red to orange, the light in the sky broke through with tiny cumulus clouds. The blue slowly flowed over into a soft pink. Not much longer and it would reveal the first stars - the crescent moon, in any case, had long been visible. How often had I already watched the approaching night and yet I had never been satiated by it. Whenever I sat there, I absorbed every detail, drank the twilight with my eyes and tried to fathom it, this endless, incomprehensible vastness of the sky, which I would become part of once I died.</p><p>Next to me footsteps sounded in the gravel. They belonged to Gunther and Eld, who, by now well drunk, were standing at a group of tables, joking and whispering, as if they were plotting something. A few meters away from them I discovered Petra. She was talking to Erwin, but it must have been the last words. After a fleeting gesture they let go of each other. She joined Gunther and Eld, who welcomed her warmly into their ranks. Erwin stayed alone, probably for the first time that evening. A heavy glass with an amber-colored liquid in his hand, he let his gaze glide around until it touched me - me, who held out on the stairs, grumpy and with my knees drawn up, while everyone else amused themselves. It felt as if time stood still for a moment, unnoticed by everyone but me. I did not dare to move. So I returned his gaze, motionless, and all of a sudden they burst in on me, all the feelings I had ignored for weeks: joy, longing, anger, and so much more, in so many shades that I could hardly recognize them. With a shy smile I greeted him.</p><p>My smile remained unrequited. Silently Erwin looked at me. None of the lightness he had shown at the beginning of the evening had remained. I felt as if his fingers were clasping tighter around the glass and his left hand was clenching into a fist. He took a step, but then changed his mind, turned around and went back to his companions. I watched him with a heavy heart. I did not understand what was happening here. My hands began to feel wet and a pressure spread in my chest, a dull throbbing at first that hurt in the end and finally gave way to silent rage that made me drink my beer faster than usual with my eyes lowered.</p><p>So the evening passed. As the hour progressed and alcohol consumption increased, the restraints of both students and masters fell. Whenever I looked at Erwin, he seemed more relaxed and cheerful than a few minutes before. I felt as if he was consciously focusing on the ladies around him. He met both his companions and the students in a very polite and courteous manner. Most of all, however, he talked to that fine lady who was called Nana. Glances were exchanged, casual touches and an increasing familiarity that only caused disgust in me. In various ways I had imagined Erwin's return to Weimar. None of them had in any way resembled this evening. The sooner I left this place the better. My life had rarely seemed more miserable.</p><p>A pair of slender female legs pushed into my field of vision from the left. I looked up. It was Petra.</p><p>"Well, old man? How are things in exile?" she smiled.</p><p>Then she pointed me to move aside and sat down beside me on the stone steps. Visibly drunk, she swayed a little, but seemed to have a good grip on herself.</p><p>"Dry", I said and pointed with a short gesture to the empty beer glass on my right. She chuckled. Then she let herself sink against me. Her soft body nestled against my shoulder. When I tilted my head to one side to look at her, her face was so close to mine that I could feel her breath on my skin. I sensed the aroma of peppermint, no doubt a leftover from the 'surprise drink' I had bought her earlier. In between, the smell of flowers and sweat mingled. I sighed softly and put my arm around her, then buried my nose in her fragrant hair. Her warmth did me good. By now it had cooled down noticeably. Whether Erwin saw me like this didn't matter to me.</p><p>"Why aren't you with the others?" she whispered and looked for my gaze, which I returned calmly.</p><p>"I guess it's not my night."</p><p>"We could change that." Her breath, barely heavier than a breeze, slipped down my throat and made me shiver. "Do you want to go?"</p><p>One last time, I looked up at the sky that stretched black and blue above us. There was no star in sight. "Where to?" I whispered without looking at her.</p><p>"Ilmpark." It detached itself from my shoulder. "It's deserted at this time."</p><p>We exchanged glances, and for a moment I looked at her white skin. Her nose was covered with freckles. It was the first time I noticed it. Her lips, full and slightly open, glistened moist in the moonlight.</p><p>"Do you need a cool-down?" I asked softly.</p><p>Instead of answering, she took my hand and pulled me to my feet. Shortly afterwards we left the party and stepped out into the night.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, that's it for this month. The chapters are quite long, so I'll leave it at two. I hope you had some fun and are doing well ;) Like you, I'm trying to get through this miserable pandemic halfway decently. A few weeks ago I was able to get vaccinated with AstraZeneca and I am very grateful for that, since I work as a teacher and spend up to 8 hours a days in a small room together with about 30 other people. However, I live in one of the countries that has now cautiously stopped the use of the vaccine for people under 60, which is why there is a hot debate here about whether you can get the second dose at your own risk or get vaccinated with Biontech. A bit more chaos than I would fancy - I hope it all gets sorted out in time. Apart from that, I still have the impression that I'm getting through everything quite OK. A lot of meditation, clear routines, yoga and good nutrition are helping a lot. However, I'm noticing that I'm increasingly missing the lack of cultural programmes. I would love to go to a museum, the theatre, the opera again - or just go to a café with friends or join clubs. None of that is possible right now, and of course for good reason. I just hope that the virus doesn't mutate in such a way that the vaccinations become useless and we start all over again. In my country they are still discussing opening strategies and hardly close schools, while B117 accounts for 90% of infections and the country incidence is close to 150. Things remain exciting.<br/>Stay well and see you next month! :) Also thank you for your kind comments! I've read them all and was so happy about them! I will try to get back to them as soon as I can!</p>
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